A Proper Romance
by Sub-Zero879
Summary: So simple were those days, before the world creaked under the weight of the Kvaldir, before he was called Black-Struck or the "Father of the Half-a-Half-Giant." Then, it was just an adventuring man and his trials in Northrend. Those are the days she came to hear of. A human/vrykul short-story, told ex post facto in a series of tales.
1. Slow Circles

_**Disclaimer:** World of Warcraft and all expansions belongs to Blizzard Entertainment, and I own nothing more than the the retail disks of it. This story is a non-profit fanfiction rendition of their story with original characters._

I'd like to open this story with a few words. As the only author notes for it will be this introduction and a single conclusion at the very end, I'd implore a reader to give it at least a glance before continuing.

We'll start with the most relevant. I've taken liberties with the source material. By that I mean I've drawn my characters closer to their source material than Blizzard. The elves are more Arthurian and the vrykuls more like Norse jotuns -(?)-. Nothing outright AU about it, but it certainly won't feel like all the races have been thrown into a blender, where their only difference is looks and the language of their greetings (looking at you, Blizzard).

Secondly, I feel like this story is meant to be read in one sitting. For that reason, I have withheld myself from posting it until it was entirely finished, so that it may all be uploaded at once. You'll see what I mean when you get to chapter divisions. They really don't allow for breaks in between. This is also why I am only allowing author notes here at the beginning and only one more when the whole story is done.

Finally, I'd like to mention that I really did not want to reveal that this story was a human/vrykul romance. It detracts from the "surprise" charm of it, since people are now choosing to read this story for its pairing, if nothing else. However, as a long time reader of fanfiction, I know how it is to want to know what you're getting into before you read. Typically, I chose my stories by their pairings, not plot, summary, or even author's skill.

So, without further adieu, here's the story:

* * *

A Proper Romance

* * *

"_I have not forgotten that she is what I am moving toward. If I seem to be caught in a slow circling of the subject, it is only appropriate, as she and I have always moved toward each other in slow circles." _-Kvothe, The Name of the Wind, Chapter Fifty-Three, "Slow Circles"

* * *

The night was fae.

Fey, strange, and weird are three words inaccurately used as interchangeable. For most men, they simply were, for each meant the same thing; something supernatural, outside the world of man, was astir. The differences were subtle, but each provided a precise meaning to their situation.

Most general would be strangeness, when something was out of sort. That could be a box stacked wrong, or a sky turned red, or a man without clothes in public. Harmful or harmless were not accounted for in its use, only the flaw in an image for normalcy.

Fey meant doomed. It said much of the fair folk that even the word borne of them meant disastrous, cursed, and death. It was a mix, of course, of the innate distrust men had for magic with the hard truth of dealing with the Fae. Stories were told of men who met with Fae and walked away better for it. Such men were held as legends, because that was not the way of things. A fairytale, because tales of faeries were stories of unhappiness and tragedy.

And weird was the day that he met her. It was a strangeness laid at the feet of fate. She called it urðr. He also called it Wyrd, and she called it Urd, or Urthr, or just Urth when his tongue was especially woolen. Fate twisted her wheel in the times of Wyrd, for greater or lesser, and not even the Fae could match the helplessness of man against powers greater than them.

Men feared the weird like they feared the fey, but one man did not, for he only met her in the interest of Fate. Weird days were welcomed like the first turn of spring, like rain against a parched field, like the aching return of a wayward lover. It had been some time since he had enjoyed a weird day, and this night was merely fey.

The shadows of the forest pooled deeply in every corner they could. They stretched and reached black hands towards him with unformed menace, waiting patiently for a single misstep into their inky traps. Silver streams of moonlight filtered from above, casting light against the lurking black, and the air above triumphantly danced with brilliant motes.

Only a fool thought the victory of moonlight the same as a victory of light. Light was man's, both the sun and fire, but the night was the Fae's, and the moon was their deity. They held the Void at bay, not man, and grinning Fae held that fact overhead. Not that the elves would grin with their faces – only their hearts and their eyes.

The musky stench of crushed leaves and freshly turned soil remained heavy in the air. Had there been wind, the omnipresence of it would leave the scent immune to the changes of direction. Instead, the night was still as death, as loud as the grave, and cool as the caress of a corpse.

Despite the warnings, one man plowed on. His only fine wear remained a tunic of midnight sky, stuffed into thick trousers meant for hard work and carrying scuffs of validation. He carried no rings, gloves, trinket, or weapon in his hands; no woven necklace of silver or gold bounced upon that fine tunic; no bracelets of precious metals or tested leather dangled upon his bare wrists. The damp soil of the forest squished and shifted under his bare feet, and though it left him looking dirty as a beggar, calluses thick as the capital's walls turned aside the efforts of sharp sticks and careless rocks hidden beneath.

Atop a short rise, the man stopped with his hand against the bark of a tree, feeling the smoothness of its cool face broken by natural carvings. Beneath his fingertips, it buzzed with hidden excitement. Only especially clever men could recognize the latter, and only the most obscurely educated could understand its meaning. By chance, he stood on the side bright with moonlight, opposite that of the pitch pool. A deep breath was taken, seeking to intoxicate him with the heavy musk of the woods.

It was only a few feet further that he reached a wide stone centered in the rare clearing. The entire breadth of the moon shone down on him as he stepped across it, directly over head and full as the prized cow before the harvest feast. But the hungering look was not from him for it – quite the contrary.

By the worn look of the man, it would be easy to think he had traveled far through these woods. Some would even be right, by their own standards. The truth of it though was that this was a man well used to walking, and this walk was no further than another, no stranger than a trip to the well and back.

Apart from the soft footfalls, the turning of rocks beneath his feet, and the snap of the occasional twig, the first sound came from overhead. It was a loud call, startling and painful after the wide silence, and he saw the silhouette of an owl against the bright moon. Its heading was northward, quickly revealed to be a pale snow owl as it overtook him and vanished into the dark trees beyond.

If he needed a reminder of the fae night, that would have served him doubly so. There were no signs as distinct as a beast of the Fae. A white tiger could not have been so clear.

A short time later, gentle splashing told him he had reached his destination, and it told him he would not be alone. On a weird night, he would have felt nothing but joy at the notion, but on one that was clearly fae, he only fought the urge to frown as he began to touch the buttons of his tunic.

He saw her upon passing the threshold of the final tree – a willow with long, weeping branches too distant to touch the waters of the pool in this time of year. Only in the early spring did the waters touch its leaves, uniting the two like lovers lost, only for the briefest time – a week, at longest – before the water receded to its natural place for the rest of the year, and the willow was left for another year of helpless yearning.

The man knew the story of the sad willow well, because it reflected his own. He wondered only how much more painful it was for the willow to behold its love for the entirety of the absence, seeing but unable to touch, and then he would surprise himself by the fierce jealousy he had for the willow. To even just see its love, even at their most distant.

Today, his attention was not on the sad willow. With the waters receded in the latter ends of August, the broad stone at the center of the pool barely crested the surface, provided a pleasant place to rest for one who bathed or swam its clear waters. The pool itself was a pleasant oval, with a diameter of fifteen yards at its thinnest end and twice that at its longest. The deepest it went at this time was to only the chest, while in early spring one could stand completely submerged but only barely.

He saw her there on that stone, sitting straight with her hands in her dark hair. She faced away from him, peering at the white birch on the opposite end of the pool, and he could see the white owl of before nestled in the nook where the trunk split in two. The moonlight colored the woman, and it gave depth to the broad length of her back in ways that would leave a man's mouth dry. Her hair shined in it, and the dark of her skin seemed the most natural thing in the world under that light.

Long, back-reaching ears were the next most noticeable thing to her. She was Fae, an elf – kal'dorei to be punctual. Despite the nature of her bath, she was not entirely naked. Halting the show of skin at the hips was a bright shawl of silvery light. Though the fabric appeared as fragile, thin, and transparent as a spider's web, the natural glow of it obscured sight beyond, and he realized it was woven moonlight. He did not know how that could be, but he knew that it was.

At the edge of the waterline, he stared at her mutely. Though he had made no sound, the Fae spoke without looking, "Had I been a lesser woman, I might have a stomach full of butterflies right now."

Her voice was sweet as they came, her accent rich and flowing in such a way that it may have been a lyric. The words passed through him like a breeze and he shuddered, but he didn't yet look away from her. His own voice returned her, putting a stopper to any song, "Had I been a lesser man, I might say the same." At his best, his voice rang clear and strong, like a brass trumpet, but he was far from his best. It rolled out like a boulder on a rocky slope, loud and hard and rough, and compared to hers, it grated enough to make a man cringe.

His voice was heavy and thick, and it told more about him than he was comfortable with.

The kal'dorei turned her head then, still with her hands in her long hair, and he could see the shine of her smile and the silver of her eyes in the narrow gap her arm made. "Had you been a lesser man, I would have nothing to fear at all." The position betrayed a teasing peak of the side of her left breast, but never enough to satisfy. He knew that no matter how long their conversation might run, he'd never catch more of a sight of her than this.

And he was glad for it.

Elf women were reputed as exceptionally beautiful, and this one was no exception. The soft curve of her hip to her waist begged for a hand, and the strong back on the slender Fae summoned forth the idea of touching- No, not summoned. It grabbed a man by the ear and tugged him until his fingertips were running down that back, exploring its ridges of her shoulder-blades and the trench of her spine. From her shoulders and down her sides, the slender waist and to those hips!

But while the enticement of the Fae was irresistibly strong, a wise man knew better than to get ensnared by it. It had been long – too long – since he found himself in the embrace of a woman, since he'd been roused to the passion meant behind closed doors. He was painfully overdo, yet it was still a time away from early spring, and the willow did not forsake the pool and turn its branches upwards just because the sky could rain. He did not desire water for the sake of water.

He slew kings and damned nations for _her_ water, and this whip of an elf was a pale, pale comparison.

Thick arms crossed before his partially unbuttoned tunic. "What must I do to have you leave?" It was no secret that she waited here for him. She wouldn't be the first to ambush him in the safety of night, seeking to claim the King's Ransom or to kill "the father of the monster."

She finished tying her braid then, coiled it into a snake-like bun, and her hands finally lowered to the shawl of moonlight around her hips. She slipped off the rock back into the water, holding the shawl above the edge. Then, with it now before her chest, she turned to face him in full, a brilliant smile on her lips.

He knew what she'd see in that look. Just a man who looked older than he was, dressed in clothes that appeared more worn than they were. A man that didn't care to keep himself regularly shaven but neither did he allow himself to reach something resembling a beard. Jet black hair and eyes of strong bronze, often confused as golden when light struck them. She wouldn't see the jaw square enough to measure corners, though she may notice his features were bolder and stronger than most men. Such things offset pretty little elves. Other women found that face perfect to bash heads with.

"I might be satisfied with a story, Fellion," she said, her voice rising and falling lyrically.

The man froze with abrupt surprise, holding even his breath against her words. His bare toes curled against the damp soil, and the feel of it prompted him to uncoil, forcing away the tightness in his spine and chest. His muscles began to relax away their anxiety. His voice came even thicker and heavier with something new lurking in it: "Who are you?"

Smiling, the elf moved back to the rock and draped her stomach over it, sliding away the moonlight once covered. She returned the shawl to her hips but not enough to hide the beginning tease of her derriere. Her elbows were planted before her as she set her chin on her hands.

"Did you think I would come knowing you as Ottar?" she teased. "Or perhaps Mr. Daret, as the townsfolk know you? No, you are the father of the Half-a-Half-Giant – Fellion – and your story is well known in circles of the Fae. I am merely she who wishes it from the mouth of one who lived it."

"That is not all you wish for." Tired of shifting his weight between feet, he found a seat on the grass beside the willow.

Her smile lost no luster at the accusation, though her eyes seemed to grow wider with hunger. "Had I a man of half your devotion, my celebrations would turn Elune green with jealousy. The achievements that would be made possible for me... Alas, desire you though I do, I know better than to think you malleable as a sapling, and I will be content with the true story."

The man hesitated. His palms, moist from the grass, wiped on his thick pants, only to go behind him to the soft carpet again as he leaned back. "What is your name? You don't strike me as Tyrande's."

"Clever of you. You may call me Lady Sylvian. I am a castaway, an exile. Fae as we were, not as the fool druids would have us be."

"Highborne," he breathed, but his attention set upon her with new light. Yes, he could better see it now. Her skin was dark as her kin, but she struck him closer to the high elves, a mix of the two. A woman of ambition and erotica, vanity and deep-rooted fascination for the unknown.

His evening plans of bathing were suspended. He asked her wearily, "What would you have me tell you? I have no tales of heroism."

"I would hear a romance. A proper one. Sing to me a tale of love and hardship, how one man forsook the lines of war to make a lover of his most hated enemy. I want to cry, Fellion, as I hear the agony of longing in your voice as you wait for her return. I want to smile and laugh with your joy at reunion. Make me blush shades achievable only by our youngest flowers as you share your passion for her with me. Let me feel the confusion, the wonder, as she brought you your daughter, and let my eyes shine with your rage as she tried to leave with the wind once again."

A blade of grass twirled between the fingers of his right hand, held above his back-tilted head. Without even a glance for the excited elf, he told her, "We may be better if you recite this story of wonder. It appears you already know all that can be said and possess a tongue fine enough to say it with color."

"It is a story of greys then?"

"Yes... No, I cannot say that it is only grey. There was silver too."

"Oh?" Her smile was sly. "Something by the moonlight, then. Was there pink too? Maybe bright burning red?"

"There were reds," he acknowledged reluctantly. "Ones that smoldered vengefully and ones that blazed brighter than great bonfires. Reds that curdled blood and reds that shivered skin. If there was to be a color, it would be grey, but if there was to be another color, it would be red." He paused, then was nodding without realizing it. "Yes, grey and red. Those are the colors of that story."

His words trailed off into the night, then were carried away by the wind. Silence was left behind, and the elf frowned as it lingered. "Don't keep a lady waiting now."

Her reply sent a shaking laughter through him. Tossing the blade of grass aside, he looked to her with his first grin of the evening. "Of all the men on this planet, I have the right to do exactly that. And why should I tell you that story? What right do you have to it?"

The elf lifted her chin from her palms and folded her arms before her, blocking sight of the dark valley below her throat. Her frown persisted. "A wise man would know better than to deny a Fae, to make one desperate."

He laughed again, shorter this time. "And what makes you think I am a wise man? That this is the tale of a wise man? Mine is a story of a fool. Why else do I sit at the furthest corner of the world, hidden under names that are not my own, desperately clinging to the hope that the mother of my child might drop in one day to just say hello?"

"Is it foolish to protect your family?" the elf asked archly. "To protect a daughter not suited to either world? Is it foolish to throw legions of hunters off your trail? Is it foolish to wait on love? Was the wait not worth her return? Tell me, Fellion, would a _clever_ you have done things any differently for her?"

His jaw set, finding no words to return her accusations. They both knew his answers anyways. He let it go with another sigh. "You are cleverer than I suspected, Lady... was it Sylvian?" A curt nod. "Well. I cannot promise that you will find any of what you're looking for, but if it truly suits your fancy, and it will make you leave, then I suppose I could tell you parts of the story. Anything to kill time."

"Your daughter does not wait upon your return?"

He gave a half-shrug. "After her mother, that one takes. She took it upon herself to find a beastly animal, tame it, and train it to hunt with her. She set out to find one this morning and isn't expected to return for a week."

Full lips, dark as cherries, smiled knowingly. "Aren't you worried?"

"At five years old, I stumbled across her wrestling a great bear, and before I could even intervene, she sent it scampering off into the woods like a mange. No, I know better than to worry for her safety in the wild. It is the efforts of men that give me concern. Their name for her would send her to tears for years, until her mother swept in one day and spoke with her in the way only mothers could. Now she carries it with pride: Half-a-Half-Giant."

There was a flitting, birdlike nod. "On another night, I might wish to hear of Fellion the father, but my heart is still set upon the lover. Seduce me with the words you used upon her."

He smiled again, though again there was a trace of insincerity to it. "You will find only more disappointment there. We were not much for talking in the beginning." He chewed his tongue thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose that is a start as good as any. It was our first night and a time a little after...

"I was younger then, of course, and still new to the world. New to a lot of things, certainly, but youth has energy in great ways, and I was first to rise from the bed when all was finished. I remember I grabbed my pants from the forest floor and had to brush out the dirt and twigs. I hate that, mind you; I'm always careful to not just throw my few bits of clothing to the dirty floor when days away from civilization. It's a damned waste and uncomfortable, and cleaning it is more effort than its worth. But she had been passionate and so had I, and _cleanliness_ had been far, far from both our minds.

"So sitting at the edge of our makeshift bed for lovemaking, struggling to get my pants back on, I knew I wanted to say something – something that captured my wonder and excitement over what we had just shared, but words failed me as they always did around her, and though I felt boorish in my silence, I knew I'd feel only as an annoyance if I tried speaking. Yet she spoke to me, in that deep, pleasant way of hers, saying-"

"No! No, and three times no!" the elf cried out finally. He thought he'd noticed a strange twist to her expression, but his attention had been focused inward, struggling to recall the early days of love. "For the love of the gods and the Goddess, what atrocity is this!"

He raised an eyebrow, only slightly miffed at the interruption and reaction to the story told in his words. "So does that mean we're done here?"

"We are not!" she declared, and her long brows pinched inward with blatant displeasure. Her back arched as she lifted herself higher upon the isolated rock, arms tightly wrapped before her chest. "You will start in the beginning, as is only proper! And you must describe her, and certainly you must describe your first night with her! That is as important as everything that comes after. Where is the detail of her bronze hair and chocolate eyes?"

The man sat up with a frown. He wished to deny her, but he knew that she was right. That was not a proper story, and certainly not how he'd tell the one of her. "You have it wrong," he admitted finally. "Her skin is bronze, and her eyes are two fat sapphires. In fact, her eyes change with her mood. They may be the blue of a summer sky when she is delighted, but when her fury is strong, they cool to polished silver. Those eyes penetrate like swords, deep inside. Light, I spent a day staring into them, falling in love again and again as I did."

"Silver eyes?" the Fae questioned, seeming surprised.

He nodded. "Your eyes are like liquid moonlight, shifting and changing with bright colors. Her's were bright too, but not unnaturally, and they were true silver, or sometimes like stormy clouds. But I loved the bright blue the most, like two shards of ice, or ocean sapphires, or a summer sky. But let me start again, before I met her, and how I stumbled onto the path where we first crossed. You heard the tale of the great white stag?"

Her head shook slightly. Rather than fall disappointed, he only smiled fondly. "Of course you haven't. I was never famous for my exploits, though I tried. The quest was more of a sham than anything, whispering promises of gods and glory eternal. But such promises are what lured her out. It was one of our few mutual interests, you could say."

He took a breath and peered around his amphitheater. Nothing but a ring of trees and dark forest soil. The pool of water made it flat, a stage, and the audience was one. The snow owl hooted, and he amended himself with a smile. His audience was two. And with the witness of the great, full moon above, perhaps his audience was three.

He nodded. That was enough. "You need to understand though that this is no fairytale. We did not cross eyes and become suddenly struck with the arrow of love. It did not take a dramatic episode of fear and near death to confess my eons of longing. Nor were there whimsical bouts of passion or sparks leading to great consuming fires. I did not cross countries and great oceans to find her – albeit, mostly because she could not be found. And yes, I have tried.

"This is a tale of longing, not love. It was Fate's plan that we would meet only in chance encounters, and we would depart as quickly. Only fleeting brushes, like breaths against an ember, and one day the flame caught, and with each breath it grew."

"It is a proper romance," she explained, excitement high in the notes of her voice.

He turned his head as the expression tumbled around like dice. Finally, he nodded. "Entirely unconventional, but yes, it is a proper romance."

His hands clapped and rubbed together, like he might at a campfire when a story was to be told. If this was to be her story, then he would be sure to do this right.

"However, for it to be told as just a romance would leave it tedious and dull, for our encounters were so distantly apart, and to list them without the juicy meat between would leave it nothing more than a pretty collection of bones. So ours is also a story of the mighty Kvaldir and the fall of empires, for without knowing them, you may never learn – as I did – just how great was her meaning to me. And this must be told properly.

"So the beginning. The tale of the great white stag. As I'm sure you already know, this story begins in Northrend, far to the east where the forests are deep and trees are thick as mountains and about as high. I set out from Amberpine, on the word of a word that may have come from the unstable furbolgs. A hunt for the great white stag, to claim a trophy of the gods.

"Yes, it is there that this story begins. It was a weird day, and the overcast made the world grey..."


	2. The Tale of the Great White Stag

_The Tale of the Great White Stag_

* * *

In fact, such was the grey that all color was drained away. It was as if peering through a fog, or a dirty glass, or if the world had gained a light coating of dust. This setting is usual to me, so come to understand it now. So thick were the clouds that no one could rightfully point where the sun hid behind them, but the land was not so dark as to need more lighting. It was merely a grey world, no rain, and with a wind that nipped a bit harder than a teething worg. Or puppy, if the image is easier.

This story begins on the fourth day along the road east of Amberpine. The road was empty at the time, and combined with the leaden look of everything, it was no surprise that silence prevailed over all else. Even the plodding of feet seemed ill-suited to the time. These are the thoughts I had that day, though there was a mix with review of the details of my task, for the road was long and a lone traveler had nothing but his thoughts to pass the time.

The great white stag was said to have a connection to an elven god, the lover of the moon, Malorne. Yet like with Malorne, the hunt was fruitless, and by my fourth day of bleak nothing, I knew myself a fool to attempt it alone. I resolved myself to stopping at the nearest trapper encampment to find a companion.

The Wyrd is a tricky thing. Its hand is subtle, leaving no hints until you are already deep within its web, and the spider that is Fate will snatch you up and coil you deep in its webs. No amount of fitful struggling will allow you escape once Fate has her hold on you. That is why men fear her so.

Then, I was young and still new to the world, and though I did not yet believe in the Wyrd, I knew enough to recognize her touch.

Fresh from setting my resolve, I was soon to cross the first encampment. It was empty. In fact, it was so recently cleared out that the coals were still warm in its fire, beneath the scattered sands that snuffed it out. A few miles further, I found another, this one so stagnant that they had a tower of pine and a working tannery installed. Despite the heavy scent of leather and fresh sawdust still thick in the air, it too was empty and expecting no return.

My first touch of the weird was a deep worry at the wrongness of it. Coincidence is too easy a word, and the powers that be were too clever and present to allow such things. I was only one man, mortal as they come, but still I unbound the hilt of my sword and I strung my bow, keeping them clear for use for when trouble came.

A third camp was not to be easily found. I stuck to the road, looking for trader posts and crossroad lodges, to no avail. The eastern recesses of the land were not for civilization, it was said, but the completeness of its absence had another wrongness to it. Even at high noon, the sun had not the strength to penetrate the lifeless sky above, but I counted time by the mile and stopped for a short lunch accordingly. Dry fish and sharp cheese.

Of course, I would have missed the camp entirely if I remained on course. After lunch, I was hardly five minutes on the road again before Fate showed her hand once more. I rounded a bend, skirting the wide breadth of a colossal pine, and found the road encumbered by a series of abandoned traveling bags. They were brown and fur, a trapper's bags, and each fat enough to hold a whole carcass of a grizzly if it so chose.

And so they did choose, as I was still twenty yards out when the first bag lifted its head and gave me a lazy stare. Round, youthful ears of a young bear twitched with curiosity. Then the mother of the bags lifted her head. She sniffed the air with a nose the size of my fist and made a sound like...

I'm not sure how to explain how a matured grizzly bear sounds compared to most bears. I'm not sure most people even understand their size without seeing one. Imagine a wagon with a full load, with great stacks of goods hundreds of pounds each poised high and proud from its broad back. Then take that wagon and cover it all in a coat of fur about half a foot deep. Equip it with claws longer than my fingers and teeth like a sabre in a head as wide as my torso.

Unlike a wagon, it's fast. Not even the lightest elf could outrun one. As for power, it could press just one heavy paw on any tree and tip it over. It is a siege engine of muscle – with the temperament of a bear that knows all these things. And I just encroached on her midday rest with her young.

The first sound was mostly curious. A little grunt with the deepness and sound of a cart crashing on its side. You know the deep, powerful resonance of a a one ton impact, how it pierces right through your chest and quickens your heart with surprise. It is the kind of sound that snatches the ear of anyone in the area, leading an immediate search for the source because all instinct knows that sound is _important._

Then the mother bear recognized my proximity to its young and assessed my threat. The next sound was that of a falling tree. The angry snapping and smashing of a great redwood's descent to the earth, and in watching its fall, your skin prickles with goosebumps and fear as you realize your own insignificance against the weight of such a thing. Yes, that was its roar.

I did not stand there and ponder on the oddness of a family of bears resting on the middle of the road. I did not bemoan my chances or look to the sky with accusing eyes. Nor did I pull out my sword with a great bellow of challenge and face down the behemoth of nature. No, I retreated deep within the primal instincts of my race, where thoughts were erased in the tidal wave of fear, and I ran.

Even now, I do not remember which direction I ran, or how fast my legs moved. I know that I was off the road, and I knew that somehow I did not stumble or trip in my flight. Had I done so, I would not be here to recite this story. I do remember flashes of it, however, of leaping clear of vast boulders that I know I should not have been able to. I remember a second and third roar like the first, pressing against my back with the menace of dragons, and how it gave my feet wings. Climbing a tree was out of the question, but I flitted through the parts where the trees grew close together and only a nimble human could fit between.

I like to think that is where I lost the bear, for there was no longer any sound of it following after. The cynical part of me argues that the bear had not bothered to chase me at all, that Lady Urth merely laughed to herself in her method of guiding my path. But that is not for this story.

My heart did not allow me to slow even minutes after the last sound of pursuit. I stopped only when nearly dead with exhaustion, atop a great cluster of boulders that gave me view for several hundred yards back. I saw no bears in that desperate moment, and, in my relief, pitched over and dropped dead. One might argue that I fainted in fright, but a large part of it was the changes of the body after vigorous exertion and how by suddenly stopping myself, the blood left my head leading me to black out. But mostly, it was the fright.

I met her when I woke up.

Still awkwardly collapsed on the cropping of rock, I heard the scrape of a boot and knew I was no longer alone. It took a few moments to collect my wits enough to remember why I found it so important to sleep on such baleful bedding, until the grey of the world reminded me it was not yet night and of my brush with a family of bears. The haze hadn't completely left me even after I pulled myself up to a sit, and I found her staring at me with a mix of amusement and curiosity.

Amber is not a woman that a man forgets. There is something to her smile that warms your heart and reminds you that despite all appearances, the world is not a grey place. From crown to foot: She has raven black hair always tied back, whether in ponytail or braid. Her eyes are wide and the sort of blue-grey of the ocean in cold places. Her skin is a pleasant tan, a reminder of the outdoor life she lives. As a trapper, she is fond of red flannel and sturdy leather, which she took care to keep soft and supple so it did not creak inappropriately. Though strong and sturdy from her work, the long limbs of youth never left her, leaving her as comely as they came. Her pants tucked into soft leather boots, stained to be a dark brown that matched the forest floor.

I suppose I was not out for long, as she said to me in a voice that rolled like country hills, "Howdy mister. I noticed your fall and thought to see if you are alright."

At the time, I didn't think much past the weathered musket she had slung to her shoulder. I said back, "I think I'll live, but I appreciate the concern."

With the worry of an injury gone, the carefully restrained smile of hers, shown only in her eyes, revealed itself in full. It was my first taste of it, and truly it lightened a man's burdens. She said then, "I have to say, I haven't seen a man run like that since stubborn Jef met his first yeti. Were you racing horses or did the furbolgs have a cook pot waiting behind you?"

I wish I could lie about this next part, but I was young and still dazed, and she was pretty and had a great smile. So with all the crassness of youth, I told her, "I saw your smile in the distance and my feet moved accordingly."

My cheeks burned hot even before she laughed. With her blue eyes twinkling, she told me, "I think you fell harder than we thought, but I thank you for the kind word anyways."

I suppose this is a good time to mention I was only nineteen years old then, and Amber is two years my senior. Back then, I still used to think age mattered, and I'm sure she saw that as nothing more than the words of a child. Amber was sweet, but she intimidated me, both in looks and maturity, so with a clearer mind, I furiously tried to put my remark far behind us.

I told her, "I'm looking for a trapper camp, actually. I was hoping you might have an idea to the nearest."

"I dare say you did well in your haste then," she replied, and I remember her shifting her gun against her shoulder. She pointed behind her, and I saw the beginning of a wood fence atop the hill. "You passed out right on our doorstep, but I'm last out. I was just running final inspection when I heard a ruckus like a stampede from the forest and grabbed my baby Buck here to take a look." The was her gun's name. She treasured it like she did all her meager possessions.

My frustrations rose again when I realized that this camp too had packed up and left already. In a large group of trappers, certainly one could be convinced to part with them for a short while, but I seemed fated to never catch them in one place. I explained my troubles to Amber anyways, hoping a small hope I could spark her into accompanying me. Never mind that she was a woman; she knew her way around this rugged land and that was all that I asked for.

We moved back to their camp to speak. It looked like the others, with everything that could be carried packed and gone. It had a homely scent, the lunch of bacon and beans still present in the air, but the feel of it was wrong, like a home with its folks murdered or taken. An empty sort of wrong, like a ghost town. Two people couldn't fill the life of it.

After introductions and the real explanation for my run through the woods, I began to tell her of my quest. At the mention of the great white stag, she made an expression that finely mixed intrigue and skepticism. Women are good at that sort of thing.

She asked me, "Are you sure you weren't being had on? I've been around these parts and never heard of a white stag, let alone a great one."

Eager to not look the fool, I was quick to explain, "The men at Amberpine put it off too. Even when a second traveler said the same thing, he was hardly given an ear until the third came by. They all say the same thing: When the moon is high, a white stag the size of a mammoth can be found going about. One man said it touched his broken leg with its ivory antlers and he was healed right then, letting him finish his trek back to camp. Another saw it trampling a mountaineer camp, crushing the men under its heels and casting the souls among the stars.

"Frankly, it all seems like hearsay, but one of them took an interest in the white stag and had already asked around. Its temperament is nothing but a beast, but its chock-full of magical properties. Antlers that can heal wounds, blood that cures any illness, and a coat of fur like mithril, able to turn aside arrow or blade with ease. He also has it on several sources that whatever supernatural blessing that came upon that beast will pass onto whomever can slay it."

By the end of it, the hunger overcame the doubt, and before she even spoke, I knew I had won over Amber. I had my trapper. She became distinctly businesslike about it too, saying, "Well, it sounds very taunka in origin, like one of their tales given life. If people really have begun catching sight of it, then this might be one not yet deep in the histories just yet. As for catching it, we might try to go about it like a regular stag, but if Buck can't pierce its hide, I don't know what to do. Poison, maybe, or a push off a high cliff."

It was delightfully devious, the way she rubbed her hands together and regarded me. It was also the first time I had seen a woman with lust in her eyes. "If we do this, I get the coat. That's my price." Remember, as sweet and kindly as Amber can be, she was a trapper first.

I agreed to her demands. "Assuming the magical properties persist, Amberpine just wants the antlers and some blood for their doctors. The kill though must be mine."

"_Stop there, Fellion. You will pardon..._

XxX

...the interruption," Lady Sylvian cut in, shaking him from his reverie. Her chest was lifted almost indecently high above the rock now – but not so much. With unnatural eyes alight with attention, the elf said, "Though you have done well in your descriptions as seen by your eyes, a listener needs one thing more. You are still so young, but the Fellion before me is different from the one in your story. Describe him and how he introduced himself to Amber. How your visage impressed her. We can see already that he is a glory seeker at heart, but what drove such ambitions?"

"Radically separate topics," he murmured, but he nodded acquiesce to her point. "Glory seeker. It is a good term. Amber used it too, but we'll get there shortly. Let's see, what was Fellion the Black-Struck like in those days... I wore leathers, if I recall. The details of myself back then are hard to remember through the beacon that was her, but it's returning to me. Yes, my old leather jerkin. I cared for that thing like my own child, keeping it cleaned and the leather strong. It was cheap enough for even my purse, and hard enough to keep my guts inside during my exploits. I had purchased it with matching leather pants, but those insufferable things took half an age to get in and seemed composed purely of malefic discomfort and indecent noises.

"I took the damned thing to a leatherworker, who fashioned from it a decent pair of bracers and stitched the rest as extra padding for my time-tested riding pants. For a pretty penny more, he stained it all a fine black that did not wash away at the first hint of water. My cloak then was green as Northrend pine needles, waterproofed and warm, and it replaced a soft bed and thick blankets for more nights than I like to recall. Good traveling boots, a perfect fit, I always made sure of that. Sometimes, that is the most important thing of all.

"I carried a sword – iron, straight, length of two and a half, short guard, and leather hilt – as well as a stout hunting bow. There's something to this you will need to know, but it ties to my ambitions, and we will cover it then. So, while that is my image, back then I was still fool enough to introduce myself as Fellion. It was harmless then to do so, and that is how Amber knows me."

With a flat-eyed stare, he asked, "Anything else?"

The Fae's smile was nearly a grin. "Only what you cannot see. The intensity in your eyes as you speak, it gives me shivers. I'm sure Amber felt it too, finding herself drawn into them, like the currents of the river, helpless to your imploring for help in this mystical quest."

He shrugged away her teasing and decided to fall back into the story rather than fall into elven tricks. "Glory seeker. That was her reply...

XxX

"You seek the fame and power," Amber concluded. It was simple insight to my character at the time, but I took it as an accusation and responded accordingly.

It was true though. Understand, I had been too young for the First and Second wars. I'm not the son of a noble, or a hero, or even a warrior. My parents were merchants, sometimes wealthy and just as often poor. I don't have an origin of training to be a powerful warlock, nor the money for mage tuition, nor the subtle hand for an SI:7 operative. I didn't stumble upon a forgotten hero who trained me into a fanciful sword art. In fact, my training came at the hands of a human who learned elven sword-dancing from another. And when I struggled to learn, rather than pull off a remarkable lesson that would penetrate my stubborn head, he merely lifted his hands, shrugged, and left me behind.

When I was old enough to leave home, the War of the Shifting Sands was finished, Onyxia was dead, and the heroes were already returning from shattered Draenor. I was not part of the great heroics of this generation. I barely caught the latter half of the Fall of the Lich King, and I never reached the glacier before it was truly finished.

I had nothing to my name. My bow was not the mark of a ranger or great hunter. My sword was nothing special either. There was no class or school I belonged to. I just had delusions that heroic problems came to those ready to rally to its call, but nothing came for me. When I caught drift of the great white stag, I assumed my chance had finally come to prove myself, and that is why I so doggedly pursued it. I needed that kill to prove, to myself if no one else, that I was a hero like the rest.

So with a bellyful of fire, I told her... well, let's just say I told her that. I nearly shouted it, and I am not proud of that moment. However, I can promise that was the last time my frustrations got the better of me. I was nineteen, on the final threshold of manhood, and I can say it was with Amber that I finally grew up. It is crucial to understand her importance in this story.

Far from offended, Amber laughed her easy laugh and sought to pacify my concerns. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend." Once settled, she said, "I had no idea that adventuring was such a competitive field. I understand completely though. Trapping worgs in the heart of the hills here is no better than bear hunting back home, not unless we find something impressive. I see this white stag as my big chance too."

And like that, my fire was gone, and we secured our partnership for this fool's hunt. That was the start of things for me, realizing how differently our conversation would have run if she had risen to my heat. I already felt young around her; I didn't need to reaffirm that opinion any further by acting like a child.

With that said, even at my most humble I cannot say that I was a mere boy following the lead and guidance of an older, traveled lady. My ambitions ran deep, and they drove me hard to ensure I was good at what I did. My failures with the sword-dancer did not arrest my training with the blade. I practiced on my own for hours at a time, seeking the meaning of his words as I did, and I made progress on my own.

Because of this, I was adept at fighting, even without class. When we ran into trouble, Amber was only good for a shot or two. Don't take that wrong – her aim was sharp, but we are only human and our foes never stationary. Even a Northrend trapper was only so good at direct encounters. When things got hairy, I was the one in front and wrestling it down.

I was so driven to be a storybook hero that I didn't see what I was doing all along. Facing beasts and fiends, protecting the lady... Don't ever be fooled by what others say: Those were my real hero days. Everything that came after was only the blundering of a proud fool.

Back to that first day, there was actually little in the way of combat. Even in that grey overcast world, I had Amber show me how to track beasts and how to avoid stumbling over a family bears. Those were simpler times, just moving about and talking – learning the person that was Amber and, I suppose, showing her who I was too.

You might ask why I'm not telling you what we said and shared then. It's because I don't remember. We spoke and laughed, and that's what I do remember from my first day traveling with her. Then the grey sky began to darken with the coming night, and we prepared for our hunt for the stag.

Amber chose a high vantage point for it. We were up a high bluff astride the river, hoping it would come to drink, and she further climbed a great tree for the greatest viewing distance. On a cloudy night like that, I can assure you the land became impossibly black, and my eyes expecting nothing. Still, looking up I could see the silver glow where the moon hid behind, and I knew the cloud cover was thinning. Amber expected that even without the moon, a white stag should be stark obvious to her trained eyes.

I was left sitting at the base of the tree, feet hanging over the edge of the bluff and my arms crossed before me. Or perhaps that's too typical. I polished my sword in the dark too. Even with my patience, I was fond of the practice while expecting a long wait. I enjoyed cleaning the leather of the hilt, wiping the dust from the guard, and ensuring the blade shined.

That better explains why my sword was already in my hands when I saw it. As it goes, my weird day was followed by a weird night.

A forest never really goes quite, though I suppose you already know that well. For the sake of setting, I still would like to start with sound. Crickets are the true civilization of a forest, and you can hear the chatter and hawking of the marketplace all around you. The sounds go far back, deep into the forest, quieter and quieter until those immediately nearby overcome all the distant chirps. So near to the river, the clamor of frogs rose up the bluff to meet my waiting ears, accompanied also by the distant screeches of owls and bats.

The ever-present wind cannot be skipped over either. It gives sound and motion to the trees, shivering the pine needles and allowing for the steady creaking of the trees as they rock back and forth. Northrend winds bite hard though, and my cloak could do little against its teeth with my arms out to polish. Still, it carried all the pleasant scents of the woods and nature, and even the river below did not stink of stagnation. There was something of wildflowers in that breeze too, I remember clearly.

But by then, the cloud cover had thinned enough to allow pockets, and from the pockets, thick shafts of moonlight pierced the earth beneath the heavens. They moved and shifted, appeared and vanished, as the clouds moved. It was a beautiful sight, matched only by its counterpart in the day, when the sun first pierces a dark sky with all its brilliance, often accompanied by wonderful rainbows.

Alas, I took pleasure in its watching, and once I looked up just before another opened only on the other side of the river, down below. And as my attention followed its direction, I realized the moonlight pooled around an object, for I quickly noticed a dark shape retreat from its bright gaze. It was no beast either, for I could see it walk on two long legs and upright.

I knew it to be a woman right away, though I don't recall why. I never suspected her to be Amber either. She was hooded, dressed in dark, and her steps came with a certain confident prowl that fascinated me. Despite my distance, she was very distinct, and it took me quite some time to realize that was because this woman was about twice the height of a normal woman like Amber. A giantess – vrykul was their name.

And I... Well, she... What is there to say? She was there, but even the memory has taken my words away...

Alas, let me try to find myself, like I sought to then... She captivated me like a moth drawn to firelight. Or is that not enough? She enthralled me like a moon does a night elf. Like magic does the high elves. I did not know vrykuls outside of the rage and heat of savage combat, and even then, I knew enough to widely skirt their villages and towns. She was the first I actually studied without lines of battle drawn, and I drank in her visage like a fish does the ocean.

It was no idle show either. I realized how well this huntress kept to the shadows even with her size. I watched the subtle flitting around the betraying moonlight, dancing in sight for only a fleeting moment, and each glimpse burned- no, branded that brief image into my mind. Or is that too much this early in? Can there be too much with her?

I suppose I should keep it simple. I watched a vrykul huntress out hunting from the safety of a high bluff. I did not know the plans of fate then, but I remember watching her for as long as I could, from the first illumination by the moon until her path returned her to the woods and she disappeared within. I remember straining to catch another sight of her, but she was gone. I realized later that I should have been afraid, that Amber and I might have run into problems later if we crossed paths, but in that moment there was only boyish curiosity. So we can conclude that where Amber made me older, she made me young again.

I don't know how long I sat there, craning my neck like a boy at a parade, but then Amber was tapping my shoulder, and I nearly swung at her in my shock. Before I could even apologize, her finger pressed my lips shut, and I noticed the serious look in her eyes. And the excitement. She breathed nearly under her breath, "Let's go," and I remembered the demand for total silence.

She undid the safety for Buck and drew back the hammer until it clicked. I'm not sure how keen the Fae are on guns, but that is like having a bow at full draw. All it takes it one good squeeze of the trigger to send an inch-thick ball of a lead rocketing towards its target with lethal force. It was a Northrend game hunting musket, so I can't tell you how fast the bullet is fired, but I can tell you it was enough to go in my chest, shatter my ribs, and go out back with a hole big enough for my fist left behind.

Needless to say, she was careful to always have her finger off the trigger until right when she fired – that's just gun safety – but it told me she was ready, and I grew excited to match. We took off with her at the lead, continuing along the river in the same direction the huntress had gone. Amber did not retreat into the woods though, keeping by the water.

I remember that run. The river bubbled and gurgled beside us, joined in sound by the chorus of basso frogs and treble crickets. We strove for quiet, saying nothing and our footfalls softened by wild grass. I knew nothing of where she was leading me, only the excitement of the opportunity at hand, and the anxiety made the run seem farther than it was.

We were perhaps two hundred yards upstream when she stopped me and changed pace entirely. I don't know what she had heard or seen, but one second we were running over the grass right beside the river stones, and in the next, she seized my arm and lunged into the shrubbery beside us. Thank the Light she was always so careful of her gun, for it never jostled or, Light forbid, banged against the nearby tree or ground. Accidental discharge would have been the death of us, in more ways than one.

The moment we were hidden, I noticed her lean towards the far side – that is, the side opposite of the river – of the tree, while staying crouched low so the shrubs kept her covered. I followed her lead, pressing close to her so we both could look without exposing the other. There was an anxious silence for a few moments as I saw nothing, but then I noticed Amber tense up, just before I saw the object of our hunt walk out from behind tree about thirty yards from us.

I think it bears repeating that the forests of Grizzly Hills are thick. The average viewing distance around you is about twenty yards in any directions, so it wasn't like the great white stag hid behind a single tree and suddenly showed itself. It was likely walking the whole while, but that was our first chance to see it. So again, I still don't know what Amber had heard or seen to know when to jump aside and hide.

Those weren't my thoughts in that moment though. The great white stag just revealed itself, and it was everything it was said to be. The crown of its head was a good twelve feet above the ground, and several more feet of antlers went above that. Its fur coat was more than just white – it showed with the same bright luminescence of the moon above, and I realized that the moon itself had finally punctured a good enough hole in the sky to no longer be covered.

It was a majestic beast. Tall, proud, moving with the same confidence of the gods. Such was a beast that had no fear for hunters, and those that intruded on its solitude would only face its wrath. My chance had finally come. Amber beside me readied her musket, and my only anxious thoughts were if her first shot would actually kill the beast and deny me its power.

Just as she was about to fire, another beat us to it. We watch, stunned, as the white beast staggered suddenly, a thick spear in its neck, and then heard a powerful bellow across the river, seizing the attention of the stag. Amber and I both looked over, and she turned livid as she hissed, "Flaming vrykul!"

Indeed, it was the huntress again, storming through the river as she loaded her heavy crossbow with her bare hands. You might assume I was excited to see her again, but frankly, my mood fared no better than Amber's. See, there is a difference between seeing a lion behind a cage and facing one in the wild. And it is another matter entirely to watch the lion try to claim the prize I was so set upon.

At the loud challenge, the stag reared itself up and built up its own fury. No steel coat prevented that bolt from piercing its hide, and it began to charge the huntress. Ivory horns of healing split off its head with great cracks as a second bolt grew caught in them, and then the beast crashed them against the woman...

XxX

He trailed off and did not pick up the story again. Lady Sylvian remained poised forward, intent and wide-eyed, and he started as if just noticing. With a sheepish smile, he said, "Give me a moment to collect myself. I have never known combat like in storybooks, where each swing and step and hit can be recited clearly and accurately. When I fight and witness fights, it is... an emotion, I could say. Instinct and emotions drive every part, seeking opportunity as frantically as possible, hoping my years of training guide my motions. Sometimes I can swing and hit, but I can't see if I scored a wound or only glanced off the leather or was deflected. Combat is not a clear thing, and even viewing from afar is not much better.

"To add, this was some time ago, and bias heavily clouds my hindsight of her battles. I have something of a heroic opinion of her, but I must remember if that was the case even back then, in our first encounter... I know that I was furious that my chance was in risk, and that I was baffled that the stag was wounded, and that her actions impressed me even then. Perhaps not slack-jawed, but it was clear that she and Amber were on whole separate levels as hunters."

If anything, his break in the story only seemed to amuse the Fae. "Don't play coy. You admired her even then."

His arms lifted helplessly. "That may be, but it was not a matter of desire. It was nothing more than a breath against an ember, driving it bright and hot, but catching no flame and dimming again soon after."

"So we are still in the silver. Well then, speak from the heart, Fellion. Let me see this vrykul from your eyes, before you knew what she would drive you to do."

He sighed and ran a hand through his black hair. "You'll forgive me if I sound a fool then, like a boy watching his first hero. Even years after meeting her, she... Fah, I need to stop stumbling over my own tongue. The white stag. Her. Let us go back...

XxX

This nameless, certainly unknown vrykul of the female variety leapt aside from that first charge, still in the river. She went down in a splash and a roll, but on her way up, a long knife was already drawn in her hand, and her dark hood had fallen from her face. Red is her hair, a crimson so deep that even in silvery moonlight it kept a sheen like dark cherries. Then, it was cut short and wild – a ritual for when she begins a challenging hunt, so it would not interfere with her vision. She also did it to prevent distraction, to not be bothered with such frivolous things like braiding it for beauty.

Well, I did not know that then, but short red hair was the first thing I noticed from her.

Patient as a spider, she waited for the stag to come again. I remember that tense moment, how it shook its head, then regarded her again and thundered through the shallow river for her. The scuffle though, that is less clear. Like the wind, she remained ahead of its attacks. I did not think a vrykul, being of such size, could move so swiftly and so gracefully. The knife gleamed silver in quick flashes, and once or twice it bit into white fur, but neither the power or fury relented in the beast.

The huntress was swift and ferocious, as wild and untamed as the stag. I recognized in it a savage beauty. Her combat was an art of showmanship, even deep in pitch of true battle. I remember the splashes of water from their stomping about, I remember it streaming from her blade in scything arcs. I remember the way her wet hair whipped about her head, not nearly so short as a boy's. At times, they would part for brief moments, and she would collect herself with the same patient readiness, holding her long knife ready, dripping with water and her cloak heroically positioned behind her.

Even so, the end came with the same quickness of the scuffle. A hard buck sent her stumbling back, and the deadly horns of the stag scored a quick, powerful blow against her torso while she staggered. A normal human would have been left as an impaled, dangling ornament on the rack after such a blow, but it only sent her reeling back, raked painfully by the antlers, and she fell against the riverbank.

While I remained caught motionless, watching that fight, Amber crept from the tree and finished leveling her musket. I noticed her controlled kneel, barrel lined and her hands steady, and I saw the stag advancing on the downed huntress. Then there was a sound like lighting striking only inches away, where the thunder shatters the ears and shakes the earth beneath your feet.

But I saw the white stag jolt, and dark blood sprayed out of its hindquarters. Its right leg was lamed, and so it floundered about for a second, then faced Amber with a loud bray. The beast had the look about it of an angry god. The notion that it was nothing more than a powerfully blessed animal was dispelled by the clear loathing on its face, and it leveled that look on Amber and I.

She also noticed and yelped a curse. Her gun took too long to load for another shot, and already the stag began a limping prance towards us. Dismayed, Amber cried, "Run for it!" and she bolted into the woods.

I was left behind. To understand, I was still in shock over the turn of events here, and Amber's bold attempt at its life only added to that. And then, my ears were still ringing something fierce, to the point where I'm surprised I even heard what she told me. Still, it was no miss-recollection, as I know what I heard next.

While I stood there with my sword in my hands, facing down the charging god and clinging to the hope that I could take it alone, there was the loud shout from the river, "Ég er hér! Koma aftur!"

I barely caught sight of the huntress standing again, looking quite a bit worse but with all the same fierceness. Her words couldn't distract the stag, however, and I leaped aside just before its antlers shattered the tree I had been partially behind. Practice guided me, and I made a clean roll, sweeping up and turning my momentum into the beginning of my first swing.

Such is the way of elven sword-dancing. I will only explain this once, so listen close. It is the conservation of momentum or a redirection of force. Any build up of force can be translated into attack. The body too can use its own elasticity, rather than strength, to redirect one swing into another. Muscles can work like springs with the right approach, using the tightness of the extremities to propel into the next attack as a counter-force. The key is to keep from the limits of the joints, where there is no elasticity to store the...

Well, the theory looks nice on paper, but explaining its application is beyond me. And beyond the man who trained me, which is why I could only employ a rough form. To call me a sword-dancer is to call a breath the wind or a pool a lake. Same to my understanding of elven arts.

Still, a sword was not foreign to my hands, and putting it into proper motion could be as easy as breathing. Sometimes easier.

My swing was true, but the white stag was not content to sit in place after knocking aside the tree, still sprinting after Amber, and my iron caught only a superficial stroke across its lamed leg. A dark line of blood was quick to show along the flank, a good foot in length. Despite it, the stag gave it no notice, not even slowing, and it disappeared into the woods soon after.

What was left but my own breathing? I remained kneeling with my sword held vertical before me, a thin smear of blood along its end. My heart beat heavy and strong, still expecting a desperate pitch, and adrenaline drove me mad with desire to act and move. Yet the stag was gone, and the forest was quiet outside my breath.

Then I heard a sound like a falling boulder behind me. I lowered my sword and looked with my eyes still wide. The vrykul women had fallen again, motionless against the crest of the river bank. Despite myself, I found myself in a dilemma. The smart choice, and certainly the right one, was to pursue the white stag after Amber. She was my trapper and quickly developing into my friend, to add to the very obvious fact that the white stag, the object of our hunt, was that way.

Yet behind me was the wounded huntress. She was vrykul, the blood-hungry savages that praised the Lich King as a god and would sooner see my head fastened to a chain at her hip to bounce with the skulls of other fallen foes. She hunted my trophy, proved herself a risk to my goal. I would be better off by seeing her dead. My blood was certainly hot enough for that.

Instead, I remembered the woman weaving by beams of moonlight. I recalled the beauty of her fight. In my mind, there was only a sentient being, a woman who clearly devoted years of her life to combat, and just letting her die seemed an impossible choice. I knew better by then, but vrykuls are not boorish in looks or evil in their eyes. They are painfully human in all appearances but size, and it is so easy to lapse into the idea that she was just a woman who lay bleeding her life into the river steam.

So I made the greatest bad decision of my life. One that even a clever me would repeat.

I sheathed my sword and walked to the river. I found the shards of ivory antlers that had fallen before, and I brought them to her. I won't have it be told any differently: those were my real hero days. If there was ever to be a Fellion the Great, he is right there, nineteen and still able to set aside all his great ambitions to tend to a wounded lady.

With that said, I wish I could use this opportunity to describe my huntress as I see her. I must hold my yearning tongue yet, for my eyes had not the pleasure against her grievous wounds. So neither shall yours.

I sometimes like to think a vrykul's size is easier to forget when they are laying down, like a tall man seated. The truth is, that is not the case, and that struck me then as I walked astride her long body to where her head laid tucked into her elbow. She was face down and curled in, and I could not tell if the dark beneath her was her shadow or the pool of her blood.

It bears mentioning her clothes were doubled-leather, thick and well molded, but they stopped before her shoulders, where an armband and bracers completed her covering. So when I stooped to roll her to her back, my hands touched her skin. It was like seizing fire.

The heat surprised me, reminding me of a burning fever, but I knew it was too soon for such to be the case for her fresh wounds. I put the trait behind me, finding a solid grip and turning her over as tenderly as I could with one of such weight. I could add her skin is soft, pleasantly so, and the hardships of her life gave firm muscles just beneath. There is no such thing as a dainty giantess.

A stifled grimace told me she was still conscious, but my attention was not upon her face. Before, I used the word "raked" to describe the damage done to her, for that is what it had seemed then. Seeing her close, however, I realized that was not the case at all. She may not have been impaled clean through, but the many leaking holes upon her leather cuirass had all the appearance as if she had been bound to a pole for a spearman to practice with.

I was not new to the gruesome, and the revelation stalled me none. With surgeon efficiency, I brought the antler pieces to bear, hoping at least that part of the legend was true. Magic remained beyond my grasp, but I was glad to see it was not necessary. As the first shard came close, I watched it begin to break apart and dissolve into a brilliant white dust, and it seeped like a vapor towards and into the closest wound. The vrykul made a deep sound, but it was not one of pain, and I continued swiftly.

One by one, the antler shards turned into the dust that filled the wounds, and I was glad to run out of holes before shards. Realizing I was finished, the urgency to continue after Amber and the stag returned to me, and I closed my hand around the last two shards and rose. Before I could turn away from the vrykul, a massive hand clamped down on my arm, and I met her eyes.

Her eyes... They are blue even in the moonlight. Wide and clear, like flawless gems, and in that moment, the pupils were black marbles for the night light. Their stare is intense, arrestive even, like it can see through your skin right to your heart's intentions, and my heart leapt into my throat when I was first caught in their attention.

I was shocked out of this unwitting trance by the movements of her lips. She said only one word, but it didn't come in the angry growls I was used to from vrykul. Her words come from deep in her belly, the kind that can fill a room and catch the attention of everyone in it, and they seem to settle in your chest more than your ears. This effect is only amplified by close proximity. Even so, it is a feminine throat that says them, and her accent is... well, sultry. Like a guttural, dwarven flair.

"Debt," she said. It took me a moment to hear through the clip from her accent and realize she meant the Common word.

Alright, fine, it was not the accent. I was staring. I broke from the enthrallment of her eyes only to behold her face, and I was no better for it. She is beautiful, not just in an exotic way. Hers is a timeless beauty, her features strong, mature, and proud. Her cheekbones made strong impressions and would have set a heart shape for her face, if her jaw had been of delicate glass. Her jaw was not, and wide, plump lips matched it perfectly. A mouth made to grin, and lips to...

I struggle to keep this view chaste, so let me bull my way out of this before I fall into a fool's poetry. Picture a face so proud and regal you would give half your soul to see carved eternally into stone. That is hers. But hers is not stone, it is of flesh and soft skin – skin colored bronze, and painted over in blue tribal patterns along her left cheek. I can never decide if the face paint covers up that timeless beauty, like painting over marble, or if it gives her exotic appeal. So I just decided to fall into the opinion that matches her choice to wear it or not. Exotic and better when it is there and flawless and better when it is gone.

Does it seem like I have fallen off track? That is good, because that is how I felt then.

But as I said, even after her word had left my ears, it remained in my chest, and I recalled that she had said, "Debt." A debt for saving her.

And I called it in right there, because I was a fool with his heart set. "My stag," I told her.

She laughed. It was a woman's laugh, deep as drumbeats but sweet and rolling and pleasant. It ended too soon. Fresh from her defeat at the white stag's hands, she gave me one firm nod, adding, "Glory."

Then I left. The combined total of our words shared was four, and nothing special took place. I saved the life of a vrykul, and she did not try to crush me beneath her fist once healed. It was proof there is more to the blood-crazed barbarians than we saw in the war. I left with knowledge, something I did not learn to appreciate until much later. It can be argued that finding a vrykul beautiful was noteworthy, but it is not. A succubus is beautiful.

It was just a breath against an ember. Should we never meet again, it would fade to nothing in time.

Though I searched for Amber with what meager tracking skills she had taught me only hours earlier, it was she who found me first. I was relieved. Even knowing I had no hope to match the speed of the stag or a trapper moving through the forest, I feared my choice to briefly stay for the vrykul might have cost the precious time needed to prevent Amber from coming to harm. I still had two shards of the antlers, but I knew that would help none if she was dead on arrival.

My fears were unfounded. I should have known better than to fear for her in a chase with a beast; Amber wrestled with grizzly bears on a near daily basis. A stag was nothing more than a warm up.

She told me the stag had ran off to lick its wounds early into the chase, and I showed her the two antler shards I had found in our brief parting. I did not tell her about the vrykul. An odd sort of shame held my tongue, and a guilt for aiding one of humanity's largest threats in Northrend. I was still young then, and though my tongue could be clever when it suited me, I didn't think I could appropriately argue a case for saving the huntress.

We set up our first camp together. We had our different ways, and she gave me tips on how to make brief shelters and keep out elements. I taught her how to turn a cloak into a sleeping arrangement, when not comfortably surrounded by bountiful nature. Once we had a fire up, our talk returned to our quest.

"Its fur is not steel," Amber opened sullenly. "That means I'm getting no king's bounty for it."

Even at my most hopeful, I had to agree. "It's a magical beast," I said, "but no reincarnated god or sanctified deity. There are more interesting things in the world than a twelve foot stag with white fur and healing antlers. I feel like a fool. I should have realized that if its coat could not be pierced, they would not know what its blood did."

She asked me, "Do you want to keep on? The antlers alone will fetch a decent sum and do some good to the frontier."

The question made me think of the huntress I had left behind and the agreement that it would be my beast to hunt. I knew I couldn't abandon it after that, so I told her, "I intend to. I'd appreciate it if you stayed too, but I understand if you would rather go back to your camp."

She only smiled that warm smile of hers, and her eyes twinkled as she said, "I'm not kicked to the dirt so easy, Fell. I still want that white fur. Mackey and the boys were getting stale anyways. I need a good adventure."

Even now, I cannot say I offered her the best round of it, but that moment ensured her place at my side for most of my supposed hero'ing days. And, as you will come to see, a reoccurring one in the time of the invasion that followed.

Well, I could continue this tale, but all the excitement has already passed. The next day, Amber followed the stag's tracks for half a dozen miles, and that night we caught it by surprise. She killed it in a single shot. She took the coat, I took the antlers, and we made our way back west to Amberpine, where they gladly cleared their coffers for the antlers and we split the money made. I took a hot bath for the first time since I had left there, and it was fantastic.

The End.

XxX

The elf had a stricken look on her pretty face as his attention settled on her. "I understand that your tale has a specific point other than the quest, but refrain from such flippant endings! If you will build it up, then you must finish it properly."

"I don't recall a promise for proper storytelling," he groused. He shrugged, though there was a nagging truth to her accusation. It did not feel right ending a story involving her without the flair she deserves, even that of the sham that was the white stag. He withheld a sigh. "I trust you will retell it with appropriate drama. I can't remember a word of dialogue between Amber and I after that at the campfire, but you are free to make it up. We ended the quest on a pleasant high note, that of success despite the truth of things. A magical stag was better than a plain one."

He paused, then added, "And that hot bath was amazing. Give it great detail."

The mask of disdain fell from the Fae at that, and she laughed. The sound was lyrical and enchanting, lifting a man's spirits with nothing more than its sound, and he smiled at it. Lady Sylvian followed it by catching his eyes with her delighted grin. "You can be sure of it, Fellion. But we cannot stop here. What is next? What is next? Three times I ask, what comes next?"

There was something deceptively childish in the eagerness of the Fae, and he knew of the dangerous ground he tread. The more riled she grew, the greater her demand, and so the further on course he was locked. To deny a Fae would be to incite ruin.

Yet telling the story reminded him of memories long since lost. He wanted to speak of her, to put to voice his strangling feelings of yearning. He knew that by the end of this, he would be left with an even fiercer, more desperate longing, but reliving just the memory set his weary heart alight, and he knew it would only get better the deeper into his history he went.

"Well, first look at what we have now," he said while rising to his feet once again. His arms went up high, stretching him out pleasantly. "An ambitious boy, a lovely trapper, and a mysterious vrykul. Fate tied them together for a purpose not yet known. But is that all the characters? In fact, has Mally's mother even shown up, or have we only begun to lay a stage for her first appearance?"

The drop of her jaw was worth an Azotha gold. With eyes round as the moon above, Lady Sylvian sputtered, "But I thought- I mean, she was just...!"

And Fellion laughed, deep and powerful, his voice once again like a brass trumpet. His grin spread wide, even mischievous, and his bearing possessed a new confidence. Or perhaps he had found an old one. "I jest, I jest. I am not saying she is yet to come. I merely wish to keep the matter in appropriate suspicion so that you may see through my eyes at the time. You must uncover the romance as I did, or else why tell the story at all?"

Lady Sylvian tightly crossed her arms before her chest and sat up entirely, keeping the shawl of moonlight fasted around her hips. She had a pout on her lips but no sincerity in the expression, and it soon fell for an eager smile. She delighted in the coy chicanery as he knew she would. "Well, we must keep on. Spin forth your sweet tale, of the happy days when the world did not creak under the weight of the Kvaldir, of brave Fellion, proud and foolish, and the woman he so loved with a devotion to bring down empires."

Perhaps it was the childish exuberance of the elf, seeming girlish and playful, or perhaps it was a return to his old bold foolishness. Maybe his returned confidence assured him that there was no danger. For whatever the reason, Fellion could not refrain from passing a wide, jaw-cracking yawn and waving her back. "A tale that must be continued tomorrow. I have a rapidly approaching courtship with a cold bed and empty dreams."

A second Azotha gold. Dismayed, the Fae woman cried, "The night is so young! You mustn't leave! I deny you. I deny you. Three times, I vow, your leave is denied!"

For a bare moment, Fellion thought about following through and challenging her thrice-bound vow. Instead, he barely withheld his laugh as he said lightly, "Well, I may just stay then. I suppose another story or two would not hurt."

Lady Sylvian's expression turned surprised. "You had no intention of leaving at all!" she accused. Her pout returned in force, and the notes of her voice turned sullen. "Why do you tease me so, Fellion? Truly, no mortal has your audacity, to so flippantly beguile a Fae. I see now the rumors that preceded you did not exaggerate."

His grin was her only answer. After a moment, he said, "Well, let us continue this story. I am torn between two parts, the tale of the beryl scale and the night of the storm crow. I do not know which came first."

Lady Sylvian's expression began to wane. "So soon? I know the night of the storm crow, but I had hoped it to be deep into your tale. You have not yet shared your first kiss with your lady love. It was the herald of the southwind, was it not?"

Fellion nodded. "The harbinger of the Kvaldir invasion, but you mistake the beginning. I remember now. Amber wasn't present for the beryl scale, because she took injury and rested in Frosthold. It was our first parting since our travels began. The storm crow came before, so I will start there. And lighten your heart, for the southwind was only an omen, and there was a calm before the storm. The tale of the beryl scale is a warm one."

He took a breath and realized he was thirsty. He passed to the pond and received a drink, dipping his hand into the clean pool and bringing it to his mouth. As he did, he noticed motion, and he saw the elf woman had returned to its depths, leaving her shawl behind on the rock. Just her head peaked above the surface of the pool, a dark shape against the bright glittering of the moon against the plane. Her attention remained latch onto him, an expression like a hungry cat coloring her face.

His eyes turned away from her and he took another drink, then returned to the willow tree and sat with his back against it. His pants were dirtying against the cool, damp soil of night, but it didn't bother him now. The firm wood against his back was a comforting, companionable presence. His hand came to one of its weeping branches and whittled small leaves away as he considered how to approach the next part.

Finally, he nodded, and his gaze settled back upon the Fae. She had drifted to the shoreline, still submerged in the water but resting her arms against the bank. He did not realize their new closeness until she spoke, her lyrical voice softer with the distance yet seeming louder than when they spoke across the water, "So you were there for the storm crow. It was assumed that that was an embellishment of gossip, after your later involvement in the invasion."

"You will see. It didn't begin with the storm crow. No, there was fame and glory and danger, and we all rushed headlong after it – her too – with hearts of fire and heads stuffed with wool. See, this might be called the tale of the broken talisman or the guardian rune or even just the Sleeper's Fiat, if not for the overshadowing of what followed.

"So let us go back to where my damning mistakes truly begin, and see how even with the best intentions, a fool hero can burn the world..."


	3. The Night of the Storm Crow

_The Night of the Storm Crow_

* * *

Like all good adventures, it began in a tavern. In this case, I will start with smell.

At first take, the establishment is repulsive. It is dominated by a heavy musk – rancid, like sweat, from too many unclean bodies crammed into one room. Ah, but that's a vision. Still, that first waft sets a suiting impression for the tavern called the Bilge's Barrels. Stepping inside submerges you into that scent, in its omnipotence, but you will soon notice it carries other drafts: alcohol and spilled rum, tobacco smoke, crushed hops, aged pinewood, the charcoal scent of a working stove. There were indeed many bodies, and the keep had a kitchen suited to offsetting their ravenous hunger.

As maids and ladies swept by our table, their wake carried currents of heavy perfumes, sweet and sultry, but wholly unable to mask the patrons' collective stench. There were the scents of oil lamps and hearty foods, all of these mixing together into something actually quite homely, but before your perception is that acute, the roar of the place consumes any attention.

The tinkle of glass is the most distinct. It rings like a rare bell against the boisterous sound of a hundred voices. In an establishment of that sort, glassware is restricted only to a distinguished few, replaced by clay mugs that beat so often against the tables it was like an army at march. Laughter and shouting, singing and, well, dancing, the outcries of ladies and the calls of burly men; all of it a cacophony that suits a certain lifestyle, a home to those with heads thick with drunkenness or looking for company in the opposing sex.

The table Amber and I called our own was wooden. Its face was chewed up by a thousand patrons before us, sagged at one corner where the leg was short, and a good chunk was missing at the middle left of my attention, a fang-shaped flaw I remember only because of its distinctness. Amber sat across from me, while at my left and right where two men of a dubious life style, presently smashed and loud and telling us everything we needed to know.

But my attention wandered beyond our little bubble, cast over the torch-lit and shadow-dancing tavern. As the only such establishment in the pirate outpost called Dead Man's Leg, it was an immense place, separated into two tiers – the lower, where we sat, for the typical rabble, and the upper, the finer, where captains and _companions_ could enjoy finer moments, or deal their business.

I watched the stern-eyed keep move at his own pace, but his efficiency kept him swift, catering to the needs of his rowdy patrons, while beads of sweat showed along the painted foreheads of the many serving ladies. Coin jingled and exchanged hands at an outstanding rate, with smiles and glares exchanged as a close second. And I watched the vrykuls, of course.

I suppose it bears mentioning why our two kinds blended so well in a place like this. About six months had passed since the events with the White Stag. In that time, Amber and I had done the odd quest and request in Grizzly Hills for a few months longer before we made our way south, into Howling Fjord. The Fjord was vrykul lands, the center of which resided their massive stone citadel called Utgard Keep, where the King of the Vrykuls sat. After the war, once our kind cleared out of Northrend and left only skeleton crews behind, the reawakened vrykuls spread unopposed to reclaim their homelands.

Of course, they weren't the only ones allowed to fester and expand. The lawless land served as a haven to smugglers, brigands, and pirates. Dead Man's Leg was a product of their empire, serving as a neutral refuge when they wanted to go land-side. It was located on top of the fjords at the very southwest. Such encroaching should have met vrykul resistance, but so it went that the vrykuls liked the pirates. A weird revelation, but if you think about it, their ideals were eerily similar.

So it went that our first emissaries with the vrykuls were bloody pirates, and it was a damned successful introduction.

They sat at bars and tables where the woodsmen specially tailored for them, drinking mugs about thrice the size of what the rest of us dared. They would take a dwarf's strongest brew and scoff it off as a woman's beer, but I suppose they kept coming back anyways. Maybe for the atmosphere, the culture, or just to get away from their own homes.

And, of course, there was a huntress tucked away in one corner, hidden beneath her dark hood, nursing a wide vrykul cup in solitude. Call me a liar if I deny how my attention kept turning her way.

"Fah!" one of the men at our tables shouted out after a long drink. "Never mind you the gold! It be the guardian rune you want! Draped around the neck of the most noble vrykul king, in the deepest bowels of the Maw!"

And sweet Amber, in a voice mean enough to tan the hide from the ironfolk: "Ain't no proof, dullard. I don't want no faery rumors."

The drunk pirate was affronted, of course, denying, "Fae take me if it be one of theirs! This be true as blood! Ask you anyone!" And his partner threw down his support like he was his drink.

Amber only scowled. "Let me guess," she drawled, "touch the guardian rune and become immortal? Eternal youth for the rest of your days?"

Both pirates violently shaking their head returned my attention to the table again. I had an image to keep. My clothes and cloak had been dyed jet black, and Amber had me wearing my sword a touch more prominently. In a town of this sort, appearances were everything, so she groomed me into her personal assassin. A legendary Tanari contracted killer, oath-bound to serve her to my dying breath, if I recall correctly. And in our ruse, _she_ was to be the more dangerous one, manifesting like the mother sea herself, a tempest in female form.

Her trusty Buck helped in that image, slung about in silent menace with each pronouncement.

"Power," one of the men claimed. "Power to subdue empires. No man, no army could resist you. Gold, drink, wome- ahem, I suppose men in your case, would all be upon your very fingertips with that rune in your possession. The vrykuls tell us how their empire once covered the whole land, united by their king's all-powerful fist. Even the dreadful Kvaldir were under his sway. The secret be in the guardian rune."

Kvaldir. What a joke. Three years had passed since their "terrible" threat had been announced from this very land, of their reawakening and the reckoning Azeroth was in for, and we swatted them aside like a pestering gnat. Even then, we scoffed away their rumor, for those had been the days of before. Only the pirates had bore the blunt of the Kvaldir's first invasion, ill-equipped to fighting the deep-sea faring scourge of seas.

The rest of that conversation continued with Amber grilling the pirates on everything they knew about the whereabouts of "The Maw" and its constitution. We'd been chasing this rumor for a few weeks now, without anything solid yet. Even these two deckhands could only suggest we ask a captain from the upper tier for details of the Maw itself.

Amber and I were left nursing our drinks when the hands finally departed. So far, we had a rough sketch of the Maw's hiding place, the riches inside (being one of the legendary guardian runes), and the notion that over a hundred other looters and treasure-seekers had already perished trying to penetrate the Maw's depths. It was enough to try our hand at fate, but Amber encouraged an approach of caution.

Presently, she gave an exaggerated roll of her neck before gesturing towards the raised quarters with her rifle. "How about I go shake down a captain while you chummy up to that lady vrykul you keep eying?"

Call me a liar. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about." Her look told me how much she believed me.

She stood up, finished her drink, and slung Buck to her shoulder. In the hard voice of her charade, she teased, "Just don't get your head bashed in." Her leave was... a saunter. Arguably the most dangerous thing the universe, a woman that knew her own femininity and could selectively employ it for personal gain.

Oh, you give me that smile, elf, but you know it true. And on topic of women and wiles, I should add that in the first moment of Amber's absence, I was approached by some of those _companions_. A pair of them came arm-in-arm, without fear of Amber's scowl, and made certain invitations for a man of my sort, which interested them in ways the typical swagger didn't. Both were much older than me, I'd guess in their early thirties, but even in my final teenage days, I had larger interests than...

Don't give me that look. Alright, fine. My blood was hot. It always is, but I was raised under the Light. I saw those two and knew exactly what would happen if I followed them upstairs to the living quarters. It sounded exciting. It sounded adventurous, and I knew an opportunity of its like was not to come soon again unless I made towns of this sort a regular thing. I was a boy, and they were two willing women.

But that was it. I didn't need to think of Amber's opinion and of leaving her. I didn't need to think of how many other men they made that offer to and have taken to bed before me. My inexperience didn't deter me, nor the image I sought to maintain. How to explain this... Sex with women like them and sex with a woman like Amber are radically different things. Pursuing one or the other sets you on a path, one that doesn't allow crossing over, and I knew which path I intended to follow.

I will give you one example of what I mean, but I won't expand beyond that. I don't expect a Fae can understand. Malavier could not, and it was that ignorance that broke her.

Imagine you live the life of a prostitute. You have sex for money, and you have sex for favors, and sometimes, because it is so easy, you have sex because you appreciate something a man has done for you. And your whole life you are having it, until the day you can leave that life, and one day you even find a man you love and marry. Imagine sex with him. You can say it means more than the times before, and that may be true, but compare it to someone that has waited her whole life for that one person. That her first time is with her husband, that the sensation is unique to him alone. It is not the same. Something has been lost, something that cannot be explained or quantified, but something never the less.

This is true for men too, though you may never find one who admits it. A man who visits prostitutes, that lays with foreign women, that takes a friend to bed on cold and lonely nights. A man who enjoys the attention of two women intrigued by power and mystique. These men may not be called whores, but the effects are just the same.

So. Those two left disappointed, and I brooded on the best approach to a matter equally foolish. Largest interests, I said. Fah, but ain't that the truth. Let's talk vrykul.

That huntress from the White Stag left a lasting impression. Vrykuls weren't always kill, maim, and hate. Throughout our travels in Grizzly Hills, I kept wondering, or dare I say hoping, to meet her again, and not knowing what I'd even say if I did. Truthfully, I think at that point I'd even forgotten what that huntress had looked like; I knew I'd recognize her if I saw her, and that she had been beautiful, but the encounter had just been too brief.

And I'm rambling... To keep it short, I passively searched for that woman, without any particular reason. And in this case, I decided to change that to "actively." So with Amber disappeared to the higher echelons and the escorts at a distance, I finished my drink and, without further preamble, stood up and went straight to the table of the lonesome huntress.

She noticed me, of course. A small tilt of her head, still not even a view of her face behind her hood, but she let me approach. Once there... oh, what was my famous vrykul-killer wit like then? Something mundane, I think. Probably, "This seat taken?"

She was hardly responsive to it. Didn't even lift her gaze from her drink. From my vantage point, we were at equal height, or her a peek higher even seated. Still, I caught a bit of face from the hood, nose and cheek and chin. No real detail, until she spoke, saying in a light accent, "What do you want, human?"

Did my heart sink? Nothing so dramatic, but it was confirmed she was not the huntress I had met. I did not expect to meet her over a hundred miles southward anyway.

To the question, I returned, "Just playing at a suspicion. If you wished to be alone, why chose a crossroads like this for it? Nothing here but a place for humans to mash culture with vrykuls, and I thought I'd try my hand at the die."

I got a smile for it, and some of her rigid posture relaxed. With a hand wide as a plate, she gestured to the empty chair and offered, "Sit, then. And if you will talk, start with why you pretend to be what you are not."

Well, I was never a good actor, but it told me she had paid attention to my earlier part with the deckhands. I sat, recognizing as I did the gap in size between us. Intimidating, sure, but it helps to have tackled a few of the half-giants down beforehand. You adjust to it though, just as I'm sure dwarves and ankle-biters do to us.

And it is only fair to say this one was pretty. I'm allowed to say this. At my angle, I could see her face finally, and she had a good one. A young one, I should add, and straw-blond locks curled around the frame of her shrouded face. Her eyes are silver and sharp but inquisitive like a lasses', and the dark shadow around them was more paint than nature.

I answered the accusation with my chin: "And which part do you think is the act? The sword?"

She pushed her vrykul mug side to side between her hands, letting the clay scrape over the fraying wood top, then answered, "Obedience. These humans whisper of a Tanaris and their killers. They fear that woman like she holds the tool of death, like Hela walking. But why pretend, when she clearly needs no fear to protect her?"

I like clever women. Her observation finished breaking my charade, though like her, my hood hid my smile from the crowd. "If you've come this far, I won't spoil the rest," I told her, to the thrill of a distinct flash of challenge in her eyes. As was only polite, I asked, "Clan?"

To which she countered, "Name?"

I wouldn't play her game though. "That's a Dragonflayer if I ever saw one. Always a little clan-shy."

And with a scoff, she would not play mine. "I will bet that is the only clan name you know, human."

"Ah, no pride in that then. Which means you are being careful, not flaunting your identity at every chance. Cleverness that only belongs to the Winterskorn. A bit of travel to come here, then."

She was not impressed, and she returned to her drink. With a flippant wave, she drawled, "Now you guess and hope. Next will I be Ymirjar?"

A note, but I was not exactly vrykul-ignorant, even then. They fascinated me and others with their appearance, and we've learned what we could while at war. Of course, even learning their culture does not resolve the question of simple barbarians or not. Still, I had some drink in me and a woman to impress, so I shrugged and said, "Couldn't be Gjalerbron. Too traditional, and too simple for yourself. Hyldnir then? Not enough frozen snot on your face."

The drink came back in a spray, and she laughed with the right amount of heart. Other patrons looked over, but I couldn't guess their thoughts then. Merrily, she warned, "The warmaidens would castrate you for that."

"They'd try," I agreed, only a bit arrogant, then pressed another angle, "But Ymirjar? Hmm. I could be sold on that. Maybe. Champions. The strongest, the deadliest. The most honorable, the most regal, the most _beautiful_. Immortals and heroes to attract admiration even before their clan is revealed. I could believe it."

I liked her smile, I concluded to myself then. It sat well on her vrykul face. This was a taboo encounter, a chance without walls of race, and flirting with a vrykul was a surreal experience. I'd commit worse crimes in the coming days and without alcohol to excuse myself. Take the implications of _that_ as you will.

"But?" she pressed, when it was clear I paused at the threshold of doubt. Her intrigued, silver eyes shined like... well, _hers,_ but that is to be expected.

"But," I continued with a little dismissive wave, "even the most clever Ymirjar has her head too high in their fantasy-paradise to wander the wastes, which, again, leaves only the cunning Winterskorn. Or am I wrong?"

And, Light bless her, she goes, "If you've come this far, I won't spoil the rest."

I'm going to end our exchange right there, but never misunderstand how easily things could have panned out differently. I don't think there was ever a doubt in the romance between myself and Mally's mother, but it was no fairytale, where the only two characters were the prince and the princess destined to fall in love. I had options, she had options, and we chose each other.

Now, I cannot begin to remember the rest of this conversation, and I refuse to try my hand at fabricating how I flirted X years ago. What is more important is realizing, which I myself did not then, that this lonesome huntress was oddly social for a vrykul. Then, I assumed it the nature of that race-mixed town and the people it lured, but she was closer to the exception than to the standard there. I explain this to better outline the vrykuls for you. Few, if any, interactions are so normal as that.

Which also leads to the dastardly hand that is Fate. That encounter was right up her alley. Her fingers show not in the social nature of this huntress I met, but in her identity. There is a tale to tell also in the circumstances that carried her to that table, at that time, but that tale is _hers_, known when her and I once pieced together the web of the Wyrd that permeated our relationship.

I'm being vague, I know. Just try to keep it in mind.

Back to my nighttime debacle, the only other part I am certain of was lightly flushing out my reasons for passing through the outpost. It was breached with, "And because my companion will flay me alive if I don't ask, what can you tell me about the Maw?" She had an interest in my bold pursuit but little to add apart from scattered vrykul histories.

All too soon, it seemed, I noticed Amber reappear from atop the upper tier, a haughty smirk in place of her usually uplifting smile. She found me and my company, and in short order she was dragging me away. It is safe to say my appearance, at least, had long since broken down, little more than a roguish player chatting up the big game, while Amber remained in full swing as a thunderhead.

There was that moment that passed between women, as vrykul and Amber acknowledged each other, something both amused and exasperated over me, but as that stout lass tugged me along, the huntress lowered her hood and pinned me with a final sweet smile. Booming over the ruckus of the tavern, she told me, "My name is Ingrid, of the Winterskorn clan!"

And because I was too foolish to know better, I announced back, "And mine is Fellion." If she could hear it over the crowd or not remained in question, but there was a final grin, and then we were out the tavern door.

"Come on, you oaf," were Amber's first words to me in the much quieter street, affectionate and wry.

The outdoors were a sharp contrast to the Bilge's Barrels. Crisp, chilled Northrend air sweeps between the buildings, and the bright torchlight and dancing shadows were replaced with drab, colorless clouds and fog. A grey world, as I had come to be used to, nearing the latter ends of evening. The streets had their share of noise, bickering venders and rowdy pirates, with the occasional duel and appropriate crowds, but it was hollow echoes in comparison to the liveliness of the tavern.

I repeated the vrykul's name one last time to myself, pleased also at my accurate guess to her clan. I did manage to wipe that smirk off my face and sober up, however, and I asked Amber what she managed to find.

I'd known her long enough to recognize the excitement in her voice, even in the indifferent facade she had up, as she said, "Guy named Captain Daret delved it a few years back. I've got the location, a short map to the deeper tombs, and also a description of the current trap that has either stumped or killed everyone so far. Literally stumped, I'd say. Falling pillars, crushing people flat. I'll explain it better as we go."

I see you recognize the name. You will understand why I hide under the name Mr. Daret before this tale's end.

Let's see, as we moved through Dead Man's Leg, I asked her, "We're leaving now? It's almost nightfall."

She explained, "It's not far; hardly two hours. We can sleep at the Maw, scope it out a bit, then try our hand come morning."

And so we went. You'll forgive me for glossing over the next part, as this story is already getting long. We left to the south-west, towards the Great Lift to Kamagua. Along the way, we encountered a vrykul hunting party – which is actually a terrifying experience. The lot of them stood like stone statues atop a hill, hidden in the fog, just watching us pass without word or motion. Bows and crossbows all had arrows and bolts ready, but none moved to attack.

On the more adventurous side, at the only horizontal Great Lift, we elected to save time. See, the Maw was at the base of the fjord we were atop, but the only real ways down were climbing, which we lacked equipment for, and the lifts. This lift would take us to the island of Kamagua, where we would need to take a boat or swim a good mile of arctic waters to get back to land. Instead, and like the fool I was, I climbed the lift's mechanism, got a strip of leather over the thick rope, and I began to zipline down the lift.

With all the grace of a flightless bird, I tried to drop from the lift and land safely into the waters below, only a few score yards from the land. Instead, and at surprising speeds, I first caught the lower rope of the lift with my back, sending me into a wild tumble before I hit the water. I was still trying to orientate myself through the shock when Amber followed. As the hardier of us two, she needed no aid, and together we swam to the shore, drenched and freezing.

I'll pick up the story again here. Once on the shore, I trembled like a cornered hare, still dripping, with my hands frozen upon the edges of my drenched cloak in the attempt to keep it flush against me. As a rugged pioneer of Northrend, Amber endured the merciless frost of the air better than I. Her only concern laid at exposing herself to a man, traveling companion or not.

Pride drives men to do the silliest things, from walking to his own execution block to murdering kings over unfavorable words. In my case, I knew the necessity of getting out of our clothes and drying out, and I could not allow the lady discomfort. I pried my purpled and dead fingers from my cloak to clumsily find my pack.

While unsuccessfully working at the seals of it, I reminded Amber, "Dry cloth. Proper cover." I kept my words simplistic, holding onto steadfast dispassion but unable to say more without chattering or stuttering.

I noticed her pale hands come into my vision, reaching for my throat, and in a deft motion, my black cloak was undone and fell from my shoulders. I looked to her, confused, and there was that famous smile of hers. Similar to the water, it shocked me to the core, except pleasantly. Her frightful act from the pirate town had been shed some ways back.

Very softly, she whispered, "Fool man. If you don't see to yourself first, how will you have the strength to help others?" Sweet Amber. Give her no blame for I would come to do later.

I conceded to her insistence, and together we struggled to remove my jerkin. While we did, I used the same undertones to reply between exhales, "Isn't that... simple martyrdom?" Next taken was my shirt, leaving me bare-chested before her.

Her eyes twinkled with her amusement as she palmed my shoulder, saying, "Then shall this serve as a reminder that often there are courses other than martyrdom that can do the most good. Now hug your chest."

A lesson I never forgot, to be pragmatic even when it seems selfish. Such was not my reply, for not even the Frozen Sea could chill my hot blood. The touch of her hands to my belt was entirely professional, yet I quipped quietly, "You just want to take me out of my clothes."

I'll admit, my tongue had a bit of a silver tinge to it by then, but our banter was always friendly. And Amber was the older one here. Her blue eyes flashed to me, clear and sharp, and she yanked my pants down, still pinning my eyes with hers. In that first vulnerable moment of being exposed, she drawled with the faintest smoke, "All so you can take me out of mine."

It just so happened that a particularly bad seizure from the cold took my leg, and with my leggings tight around my knees, I stumbled and fell on my ass. I don't know what color my face was, between the blue of the cold and the red of embarrassment, but Amber had a lazy grin at my reaction, as if it were her words that took me down.

In a few moments, I had my leggings off, and I suppose a bit more feeling to numb fingers, as I was the one who set upon my traveler's pack, naked as I did. My body was nothing but gooseflesh and quivering leafs, but I got it open. Ever the gentleman, I found a thick, Northrend-worthy blanket and dried myself before handing it over to Amber.

To this day, I don't know how she might have responded if I helped divest her clothing like she did mine, but our jokes aside, that wasn't me. Once certain she wasn't crippled by the cold, I turned away from her. I watched the fog on the water and the lapping waves, giving her space and privacy.

Amber's announced her finish with: "Enough standing about. Let's finish this." I turned back at it.

And what a sight she made! I think it's only fair to describe her with the truth of what I saw, because certainly her image guided my preferences as time passed. Amber is a strong woman. Physically so, more than gritty and tough. A woman who grew up outdoors with her brothers, then was drawn to fiercer huntings in the most savage land on the planet. She pulled her own weight with the other trappers, and the labors of her life showed on her body.

Most analogous to her shape is a night elf sentinel, the warrior women of your race. Lithe, but enduring. A solid frame, strong legs, with arms and shoulders well used to work. That is what I turned to behold, devoid of the unflattering flannels and workman's leathers. She dressed herself first in my old traveling cloak – dull and sun-bleached, stained and wearing through, but still wholesome. Well, formerly wholesome; she cut holes at the shoulders to let her arms through. Keeping it closed down her front was the blanket, folded once over and wrapped tightly around her torso beneath her bosom, belted to her like a heavy war skirt by my still wet girdle that ended at the knees.

So what did a man's eyes see? We saw the racy bust of a woman through the thin outline of an aged cloak, from shoulder to breast. We saw naked arms and shapely calves and were teased by the peak of skin from the sliver that the cloak opened at the sternum. But my eyes were drawn to the whole of her visage, struck by a beauty previously unseen. The beauty of a feminine strength. Her legs were parted in a steady stance, and she had Buck resting against her shoulder like a cudgel, exposing her right arm in the bend for it. The thick, heavy "skirt" concealed navel and hips but... fortified the image. War skirt was no idle term.

I know I'm not doing my feelings then justice. Strength is a man's trait, but... No, I will not shy from this. Seeing Amber in that moment made me realize strength is not only a man's trait. There is a whole realm of sexiness in a physically strong woman. What man can refuse the shapely legs of a horse rider? What man is not fascinated by the repeated clench of her abs at the peak of passion beneath bedsheets? Do shoulders belong solely to man, so that our hands find only bone upon a woman?

A slender flower may be looked upon fondly, but a strong woman is to be touched – to raise passion with, fearless of delicacies. I did not realize it then, in that moment, but I was falling in love with the shape of vrykul women, utterly and hopelessly.

"_You're blushing," Lady Sylvian teased._

As well I should be! I am not used to sharing the intimacies of my thoughts, but I promised my romance, and you will know the truth of how it was built up.

Light, where was I? ...Right. With me starkers and Amber a miniature war goddess, we finished the short distance the rest of the way to the Maw, a mere few minutes walk. I could see finally why it garnered the name.

The Maw is as its origin foretold – in that a stray cannon shot from a pirate ship punched an entrance into a long buried tomb. A jagged hole appeared in the earthy wall of the fjord, with mounds of soil at its base. Its rim was like puckered lips, and the mouth of it an impenetrable blackness consuming the fog of the sea. I'll admit, it was not so ominous from the outside, appearing much like a natural cave might, but passing its threshold did remind me of passing "into the belly of the beast." The rumors of what laid within were not to be forgotten.

I cannot say that I continued this journey in the nude, like a model to heroic paintings of triumph. As aesthetic is it might appear on canvas, with rippling muscles and bronzed skin given life under pastels, it is both impractical and foolish in flesh. It was known that the tomb was a vrykul one, but it was proven again by the wooden dragon posts and similarly themed relics.

Well, if plundering the dead was our game, what was a little more desecration? We pulled the ancient wood and kindled up a fire, using spiderwebs as tender if you want a fairytale image. The two of us sat around our impromptu campfire near the Maw's entrance, using it to dry our clothing and warm our bodies. I did my job in watching for unwitting visitors, but none came. I wasn't expecting many anyways; the others who tried and failed dealt with the ghosts, guardians, and walking corpses before us.

We watched the gloomy sky slowly begin to darken, then eventually dressed again properly. It was a relief, to say the least. We stayed warm at the fire, using the luxury to heat some hard sausage and jerky for dinner. After the resident lady dressed, she sat down and began the arduous process of disassembling and cleaning Buck. Seawater does terrible things to muskets, and the powder she had in it was less than useless. I accompanied her by cleaning and polishing my sword while waiting. As I have said, it is a practice I am fond of.

It was still dusk when we were ready to first probe the Maw. We decided that, if we could manage the puzzles and traps swiftly enough, we might attempt the whole thing tonight.

Ever the hero, I had one good resin-dipped torch in my pack, and we used it to light our way through the tomb. Let me see if I can give shape to the darkness...

Inside the Maw is more cavernous than tunneled. I assume it was originally a natural cave that the vrykuls worked upon and decorated. Vaulted ceilings escaped the confines of our single orange light, typically black but sometimes given shape by a dim orange glow. We had stone brick pathing beneath our boots, shifted uneven and treacherous with age. It set no direction, branching to all corners of the tomb, especially encircling the many graves sporadically placed around us.

That sets a measurement to its age. Stone caskets, an ancient vrykul tradition from the titan age. "From stone to stone," they said. Only after they forsook the titans did the funeral pyre become tradition, a departure of glory to the afterlife.

With the size of these stone tombs, it would be difficult to think of them as caskets. As tall as I am, as long as twenty feet, cut perfectly square. If not for the four wood posts that marked the corner of each, they might just seem as mysterious blocks.

It should be added that the Maw sprawls like a city, well beyond torchlight in any direction. Massive pillars had been erected, or at least appeared as if natural formations had been carved and sculpted downward for cleaner appearances. We kept linear, heading inward from the entrance at the wide path between tombs. Bones and blood were soon found to litter the floor, sometimes armor new and sometimes armor so ancient the metal had gone white and brittle as bones.

Such was the reception chamber. We were a good hundred yards under the fjord when we came to the end of the chamber. The earthy wall came into sight of our torch, as did the massive, vrykul-sized archway that led us deeper into the tomb. That is where the adventure truly began.

Forgive me, but I do not wish to explicitly make up the many valorous trials I conquered starting at that tunneling. It is nearly forgotten to me now, but I can summarize what I do remember...

Without boasting, I can say we only succeeded because of me. This is no mark of my might and cunning; it was my half-trained roots of elvish sword-dancing that carried me through the traps of the Maw. I was giddy then at my success, when I realized we were progressing where no other had before, but that did not diminish the danger of the matter.

The first of the traps, which is the last trial that none of the heroes before could pass, was a square room with many holes in the ceiling. The trap remained activated, and the corpses of those beforehand remained obvious bloody stains and crushed bodies. From those holes above, stone pillars would ram down and crash against the floor below, and then suck up again to allow another to fall elsewhere. I imagined the mechanism like a child's seesaw, where the fall of one end would raise the other, and then the weight of the other would bring it down again, lifting the first again. This was done on a scale of few dozen such seesaws.

The pattern remained random, by the varying speed of each falling pillar, and there were too many to match stone to its companion – or if it was even just one and one matching – but understanding the trial, I left my sword with Amber and entered the chamber alone. The real trap of the chamber is that often, the way forward will still be blocked by a pillar when the one above your head is descending. By random misfortune, it is possible that you jump beneath one as it is rising, only for others to fall on all four sides of you, trapping you when that pillar begins falling again.

With whatever confidence drives a nineteen year old hero, I retreated into the principals of sword-dancing and jumped into the trap. I was ever-flowing motion, rolling and diving, shifting and turning but never stopping or forcing a total change in momentum. It was sometimes like a dance, I compared it to when I was finished. I might roll up against a pillar, falling upon it with my hands and chest, then twirling along its breadth clockwise, then persist when I was three-quarters a rotation around it.

I was frightened and exhilarated and confident the whole while. I remember most clearly the end, seeing the final line of pillars, nearly lurching carelessly under hope of luck, but the flowing nature of my motions allowed no such haste, and I eventually bypassed a fallen pillar at my same pace. And then it was done, and I was clearly across with no further pillars. The only sounds then were my own moderate panting and the relentless slamming of stone against stone.

I believe the surest challenge of it was finding a way to deactivate the trap so that Amber could follow. Ancient vrykuls did not believe convenient levers and rope pulleys to be... in style then. Alas. I managed, learning ancient mechanisms, and I recall being struck by the cleverness of vrykul engineering. Forgive the cliché, but they were obviously well ahead of their time. Even modern vrykuls, they awoke after thousands of years carrying harpoon guns with more accurate aiming mechanics than anything we had in the war, and their runic magic is a whole field previously unheard of.

I forget myself though. The maze. It was not always my skilled motions that led the way. Vrykul ghosts roused from long slumbers as we invaded deeper, and in one room, a full dozen stone guardians awakened with monolithic fury. I broke my sword in that fight, but Amber's Northrend game-hunting musket shattered them with little effort.

When the final chamber came into sight, my thoughts were not quite what might be expected. There, in the distance, was a brilliantly glowing cavern of enchanted relics and treasures. We couldn't see details, but we knew it was the end, and I thought to myself, _How in the nine hells did all the rumors know the treasure room glowed in the distance?_ It was the first chance we had to catch sight of it, and we were much deeper than any party beforehand.

I know honesty doesn't make for the best stories, but there is a good reason why that particular thought stuck with me after all these years.

One final chamber separated us from that treasury. Damned if I remember it, though; I'm not the one that solved it.

As usual, Amber and I took the time to study it beforehand. From the limited lighting between my torch and the distant glow, we would guess its activation, its obstacle. Perhaps a hole in the wall would spit projectiles, unleash a torrent of bronze-molded critters, or would be the keyhole for its deactivation. A stone square may be a safe-point, a cap to a lava-vat, or a mere weight-stone to whirl up the trap upon our trespassing.

Whatever this last one was, we guessed wrong. I went in, and its fangs caught the little mouse I was. I briefly remember a storm underground, lightning and winds, but mostly I was buffeted and lowed by whatever that chamber was, too swiftly to adapt to and learn it. In hardly a minute, I was against a corner, lowed and wounded, and I knew then that I was going to die. There was no way out, no way forward.

Give a moment to recall what I can... Yes, I think- Right. Well, even if I'm mistaken, a little embellishment can't hurt.

So there I was, fallen against the cavernous wall of that final chamber, our goal in sight but well out of reach. The chamber stormed under ancient vrykul magics, roaring and thundering, and whatever advice or pleads Amber cried out were lost to it. I tried to find her with my eyes, but I'd been hit by something, thrown against the wall beside me, and the long lines of crimson streaked down from where my head had met it. I clung to consciousness with what little strength I had.

I tried to watch for the next attack, but it was unseen and unknown. This chamber had bested me. Blinding veins of lightning flashed over the walls, the ceiling, giving color and light to the otherwise shrouded chamber. The torch was with Amber, and my already struggling mind couldn't make sense of the shadowed traps any longer.

While I lay there, without sword or real armor, there was a crack, fierce and resonant, like a boulder splitting in half. I recalled that the ceiling was regularly collapsing, dropping square-cut blocks weighty enough to splatter the heads of vrykuls. As a whole, the traps had been designed to stop vrykul intruders – my size had been an advantage – but now I looked up to a teetering block above my head, unable to dodge once more. I watched, helpless, as with one final CRACK, it fell...

And there she was. Two balled fists came like a cannon ball, smashing the stone aside in a blink. My delirious eyes went wide at the interruption of my doom, and I saw above me a penumbra goddess, with laurels of shadow obscuring her like the rest of the chamber. She spun on a heel while drawing a bolt from a quiver at her side, and in a sweeping gesture, she dropped low and drove the bolt into the stone floor by its head.

Lightning burned my eyes shut, but for the most fleeting moment, I saw my savior in color. Hair like fire and a face locked in fierce defiance, then I was blinking back flecks of blue and black from my vision. When I could make out shapes again, I saw her once more, a steady and confident shape prowling through the chamber without fear or regard. Lightning still flashed, but never did it _dare_ to strike against her.

I have said I hold somewhat of a heroic image of her, and this was certainly its beginning.

The trap was deactivated, and in moments Amber was to my side, bringing light and aid. We had little more than frostweave bandages then, and while it helped the immediate issue of the gash in my skull, I was still beaten and worn and oblivious to the words she said. While Amber worked, I tried to study she who saved me, this woman that handled this chamber with such ease.

With clearer eyes, I could see that this larger-than-life figure was literally so, as I'm sure you've guessed. Vrykul, a hooded huntress. The coincidence couldn't be ignored, and I strongly suspected that Ingrid had followed me after hearing our pursuit of the Maw. Well, she would certainly be a welcomed face, even if it meant facing some teasing at my need for rescue. I had no view of her face though, as she went around the chamber, stooping to pry her bolts from the stone.

On that, and in my defense, she had the opportunity to learn the nature of the chamber from the safety of the side, to study and devise a solution, so her ease in its conquest was understandable. As it went, the true teeth of the trap, the wild storms of lightning, had been grounded by the metal bolts she planted around chamber.

When Amber finished with the bandages, she sat down beside me with a drawn sigh and accompanied me in watching the huntress. A hard-leather jug of water was passed to me after her own drink, and she explained, "I didn't even notice her until she just lunged inside. No words, just action."

"Vrykul," I said as agreement, too worn for much else.

She added, "Must have left some impression back in that pirate town. She saved your life." I said nothing.

The final bolt was the one just before my splayed feet, and the huntress crouched down to worm it out. As she did, we finally got a view of her face. And Ingrid was swept clean from my mind.

It was my huntress, of course, from back with the white stag. That bright shock of hair I briefly saw before wasn't blond but red flame, I realized. But that isn't what gave her away. I had been telling myself that I would recognize this huntress' face if I ever saw it again, yet before I even had a chance to _see_ that face, sharp silver eyes stole mine and held them fast, and right then I knew.

Before, they had been blue – blue even in moonlight – but I knew these eyes like I knew Amber's smile, even a hundred miles and six months displaced. Eyes that pierced right through me, privy to all that I am, and enrapturing all on their own. Ingrid's eyes had been a spark of reminder, but this was undeniably the real thing.

I may or may not have been a bit slack jaw, but Amber's opening words gave me some solid framework to latch onto to begin pulling myself back together: "Thank you, on behalf of both of us."

Gleaming silver eyes slid from mine onto her, and I drew breath without realizing I'd been paused. I blinked, pushed back my fogged mind, and beheld her face now. That first look served an unforgettable reminder to me; months after the fact, "beauty" and "breathtaking" had been fixed terms in my recollection of that huntress from the white stag. Yet even recognizing that, seeing that face yet again made me realize the transparency of mere words, and I was vaguely enamored by her visage. I think that's also when I first made that immortalized statue comparison for her.

And with my wits returned, there was a sudden storm of thoughts and my heart began to race with the recognition. This was the very same vrykul we had seen way back up in Grizzly Hills. What was she doing this far south? Did she recognize me? What was she doing here, now, in the Maw? Had she known we would be here? Did she recognize me? What was going to happen next? Did she recognize me?

Amber beside me was something of a concern. I had yet to tell her of the brief encounter back then, despite coming to know Amber better. If the truth came out now, would she think less of me for withholding it from her, or would it be a non-issue? Certainly, I did not want to demonstrate a sense of familiarity with the huntress, though to be honest we were a far cry from familiar anyways.

The whole stir of events kept me speechless, while Amber said, "Well, looks like the prize goes to you. To fail this close to the end, will we get no share of the treasure?"

I'd almost forgotten why we were even there, and my mood took a downward swing at the news. Still, better to be poor and alive than the opposite.

But the ruby haired huntress settled back on her heels, and she established, in that pleasantly resonate voice thick with the vrykul's clipped accent, "The Sleeper's Fiat is mine."

That's the name of the guardian rune we pursued. A heavy price, but she was suggesting that not all the treasure would go to her. That gave Amber and I a bit more energy, enough for me to ask, "Are there any more traps ahead?"

I almost regretted opened my mouth the moment her heavy gaze fell back on me, as my mind nearly blanked enough to forget her reply. The Light's blessing that her words are powerful enough to supersede mere sounds. "Only the treasury," she said to me.

She is truly intimidating, this women I call my huntress. Not so much in her size, which is indeed that of a giantess, but the combination of... well, _her._ Intimidating looks, and sharper skills in combat, and unsurpassed grace, and keen intellect, and a savage strength, and most of all she is vrykul. I may have saved her life, but with this, my one advantage was evened out between us. Still, she fascinated me.

Amber suggested, "We should see this through. Take everything you want. We'll gladly settle with what may be left." She bumped me with an elbow. "Come on, Fell. Let's get you up."

With Amber's help, I got back to my feet, and the huntress herself stood with the copper bolt in hand. Before we left, I had to asked my savior, "What is your name?"

She lowered her hood in a vaguely familiar gesture, revealing now shoulder-length hair with a short braid on the same side as her blue face markings, but she was looking away from me as she said, "I was told to hold you in suspicion."

In suspicion! Well, it certainly means she knew me, but not in the manner I had been hoping! My response was sort of a muted outcry, just too haggard to really care: "By whom?"

My question was ignored, and I suppose I let it drop. The vrykul was first to proceed into the next room, the final cavern of the Maw, with Amber and I straggling at her heels.

I'll admit, excited as I was for the treasure, I couldn't help stealing looks at the huntress. Oh, she was tall. Half-giants, they like to call vrykuls, yet we humans are half that again. So, all the better for the vantage point of her long, _long _legs. And not some gangly stilts like a courtroom dame too afraid to eat a bite. Strong legs, shapely and brazenly exposed in the tight sheath of leather trousers.

Don't you snicker, Lady Sylvian. I love her legs – legs for you and any girl to envy. Legs that caught my attention then. And I've got memories with those legs, so you will be hearing about them.

"_I'm looking forward to those "memories.""_

My clumsy recounting won't half do justice to the real thing, and even then I say you should. And for now, as my first real opportunity to behold that which is her, I'm going to continue to describe my huntress as I see her. And in that, we start with legs.

From our lagging position, it was also quite obvious that those great legs concluded... generously_._ I could talk about her hips too, but that is a topic for another tale. For now, we will take her in parts, like a flower to be unveiled by each petal. Next is her walk, which is smooth and sly, like a panther on prowl. Each step is meticulously placed, yet seemingly performed without thought or effort in an image of grace. I know of none who walk like her, able to employ the floating stalk of a silent huntress yet also the same carefulness of a vrykul's sure-footing.

That is also worth a note, if you were not aware. Strong and tough as vrykul are, these are still beings that weigh between eight-hundred to a full one and a half thousand pounds. Falling is especially damaging to them, and so they are cautious from their footing all the way down to merely turning over in a bed. That said, her particular blend in walk makes for a rather... erm, hypnotic effect. A 'shifting' sort of distraction, with her swaying cloak adding to its tease.

She is strong, too. I didn't connect it to the image of Amber from earlier just yet, but I noticed it the same. That beauty in strength, both in shape and balance. Her stride, her stance, the way she peered about the chamber with a passive challenge, chin lifted as she trusted her feet to find their place. She has such grace and confidence, hanging about her in this aura that manifests her identity as this exotic amazon huntress. The vrykul notion? Death-bringers and blood savages? In her presence, the thoughts never cross my mind.

For dress, I've already mentioned the tight leather pants and the... impressions it makes. By color she wears dark browns, dressed in iron additions and black cloth for the joints and splits in it. I've also said she wears a double-leather cuirass. She wears it well, molded to her frame. It is cut from shoulder to belt for total cover, but her arms are bare, again with only an armband and a bracers for further protection. I don't know whether to use "lean" or not for her torso, even knowing it outside the leather. Strong as she is, her abs are mostly hidden. But in proportion, her waist from stomach to back is a slender, sinuous shape fitted to the curve of her spine – as seen by the side, yet from face or back, a strong core supports her.

A paradox I don't believe I'll ever have the time with her to conclude.

My sight avoided her face (and her attention), but little more than a glance was needed to know she possessed the appropriate swell of a vrykul chest and also a slender throat that boasted her gender more certainly than any other vrykul feature...

XxX

The words trailed into the night and continued along by the wind, but silence quickly began to stretch, and it was apparent Fellion would not be quick to pick up the story again. Lady Sylvian peered up at him, putting the mental images of his story aside to focus on his face, and she saw a dark cloud of emotion. Very softly, she prompted, "Fell?"

Perhaps it was the usage of the name his Amber had taken to, but quickly his attention drew back to her and the present, and he had something of a bashful look about him.

"I'm sorry," he forced out, and she could hear the raw emotion in it. "I just... I miss her. I miss her so much. Forcing myself to recall every detail, and every memory, and knowing she's not going to be here when I finish... It's not easy, Lady Sylvian. I am _never_ going to recount these tales again, so take every note of them now."

His palm swiped at his eye, though she hadn't seen any tears. "Light, we're only at the storm crow too, before I have any right to say I miss her. The other stories will be swifter." He exhaled slowly, then inhaled again, seeming to draw strength in the action. "Let me continue...

XxX

That, I hope, gives you a framework of image for her, for if I were to continue I might spend all night without advancing my tales.

Then of course there is the matter of the treasure. Some gold and sparkles, all the things a younger me was fascinated with and probably held in higher regard than the company of this unknown huntress. But even then, I and all of us focused most on the throne. Stone and iron, fitted for a vrykul king and decorated with enough precious metals and gems to easily be worth the riches horded behind it.

And on that throne was the king, reduced to bones and embossed armor – armored that shined brilliantly still, full of vivid golds and ruby reds. Dominating even that was his amulet, draped by what must have been simple leather yet could not with its standing age. The light of the treasure room could exclusively be contributed to that amulet, glowing white hot like heated iron or the sun itself, while the enchanted armors could do no more than twinkle like stars beside it.

We all fell spellbound by its radiance, and I knew envy like none before that such a prize was taken from my hands at just the end. The white stag had been a sham; it was almost no fair that the huntress' returning save netted her a gift of the gods. But the tale is not yet over.

Carved like crude vandalism into the detailed iron of the upper reaches of the throne's back were runes. They were wide rends, as though done by the claws of a giant beast, but it was in no language that I could read. Our huntress, however, passed a few vrykul curses under breath, and she beat her fist against the side of the cave wall once.

We asked her what was wrong and she translated, "'Take all riches, you of spineless thieves, but a thousand curses and ten generations without honor for the one who breaks the Sleeper's Fiat.' Sorþinn sýr un ragr!"

Well, all that work getting here, and it turned out that the guardian rune was cursed on top of it all. Because of the challenge of honor, the huntress refused to even touch it, and I was convinced for the same, however begrudging it was. So we left the vrykul to begin determining how much of the other treasure she was going to take.

If only the night could have passed so smoothly. But no, fate had different plans.

"Ophelia!" called a man, interrupting us, his voice honeyed and lascivious but utterly repulsive in its sound. I looked at the huntress, assuming that to be her name, but I noticed she pulled her crossbow to her hand and was loaded a bolt with a suspicious look. Again, the voice: "I thank ye, Ophelia!"

I recognized the accent then as a pirate's, and I also noticed the source. Against the right-hand wall was a fathomless pit, but above that was a tunnel and a ledge – or a sort of window in the rock, I forget which – upon which a man stood, dressed in a red coat and white linen. I could see no details, but Amber beside me muttered, "Oh, shit."

"You know him?" I demanded, but she too took hold of Buck and undid the safety.

Looking slightly pale, she gave me a nod and said, "That's Captain Daret, the sap I got our information from. Burn him! He must have waited and followed us here." Quieter still, she mumbled, "He likes to call me Ophelia. I don't know why."

And me: "Is this going to be a problem?"

Daret: "I say I thank ye, Ophelia, some fine work, but me boys will be takin' it o'er from here!"

Her: "Probably, yeah."

Of us, the huntress appreciated the interruption the least. She sent a bolt his way, missing him by inches, and shouted, "Human pig!"

The captain disappeared inside the tunnel, but we could hear him laugh and shout, "Arghahaha, come on, you lollygags! Get to work!"

Then came another voice, from the hallway we had come through, one deeper yet far more feminine than the captain's before: "Sister! Systir!"

It was a weird day, that which I met her, and sometimes the hands of Fate are visible only in hindsight.

The huntress shoved past us, running to the chamber's entrance, with a worried shout, "Ingrid!"

And there she was again. Hood fallen, blond hair disheveled, with blood splashing her torso, but the very same I had just met only a half day prior. The still nameless huntress that we had joined with got Ingrid's arm around her, and she helped carry the very obviously wounded woman inside.

Heh. They say you can only take so many surprises in a day, before you become numb to it. Even then, still a fresh-faced adventurer, that was hardly the case for me. Instead, answers seemed to slide into place. It's a nice thought, being able to look at inevitable death, nod, and say, "This makes sense."

Joking aside, it was a familiar scene as we got Ingrid laid onto the stone floor, her body and armor punctured and slashed. This time, however, there were no convenient magic antlers laying about, so with surgeon efficiency, Amber unwound another batch of heavy bandages to set to work. I didn't know how close that ledge was to the main entryway, didn't know such a ledge existed at all in fact, but I knew we didn't have much time before the pirates would be upon us.

Ingrid had a cheeky smile when she saw me, winking despite her wounds, and greeted merrily, "Fellion."

I felt torn between concern and an urge to laugh, but I accused with appropriate excitement, "You followed me."

The women got Ingrid to sit up again to get the bandages around her vrykul-sized torso, but the blond seemed oblivious to the red staining through the blue cloth, shrugging a shoulder as she explained, _"She_ followed you. I was only watching her back."

The persistently nameless huntress shushed her and said, "Enough. How many are they?"

"Too many," was Ingrid's unconcerned clip. "I got at least a dozen, but these humans crop up like weeds. They've got guns too." And to me, with sparkling silver eyes, "You're pretty when you're hurt." I still had the bandage wrapped around my forehead and was feeling fairly self-conscious about it, approaching death or not.

Amber made a displeased sound once she finished the bandages and picked up Buck again. She mentioned, "Fell's out and she's a mess. We don't have any advantage here."

We could hear the first of the sounds through the hallway then, the echo of plodding boots, but they were not upon us yet. I'll admit I stared a bit when the huntress looked towards the noise, that enchanting face holding its spell, but she spat, "Let them come."

So let's break this down a bit, as I did in that moment. I was the only man in that foursome, wounded though I was. With me was dear Amber, my brief flirt Ingrid, and also the very same huntress that made such an impression only a few months earlier, and apparently also Ingrid's sister. Their eyes and complexions matched, though Ingrid was clearly the younger. If nothing was done, they would all be dead in a few minutes, or worse if these scumbag pirates managed to disarm any of them.

My sword was broken. My head pounded something fierce, probably a concussion in there, and my motions were sluggish, without the fluidity of the only martial art I knew. My thoughts were a mess – sharp enough to think, but not anything grand.

I watched Amber say something to that gorgeous redhead, and they ran to the treasury to try to make a hasty barricade from whatever they could find. It wasn't that bad of an idea: jade statues, legendary armors, thick-bladed vrykul weapons. It would hold under gunfire, while the two utilized their range. But the fortune was far from my mind then, and even the lovely shape of either of them was not even a thought as my attention was spell-bound once more by the radiant guardian rune, the cursed Sleeper's Fiat.

Briefly, as the women did their work, I recalled Amber's earlier warning: "Then shall this serve as a reminder that often there are courses other than martyrdom that can do the most good." If there was another course that could have done more good, it was outside my mental grasp. But martyrdom? For a team of women or varying degrees of meaning to me? For Amber herself?

That I could do in spades. Fellion the Hero. My childish want of being something greater than a merchant's son, of having meaning to people I valued. And in that moment, I knew that if my heroics went no farther than Amber alone, I would be content.

I stood up from where I rested beside a grumbling Ingrid, who had found her arm was still unable to manage a full draw of her bow. Without any hesitation, I walked towards that beckoning glow, garnering attention as I did.

Amber's voice reached me first, no more than a simple utterance: "Fell..."

The huntress that saved me had alarm thick in her voice, warning sharply, "It is not wise!"

But I wouldn't have them die while I could make a difference. I think I told them as much, but it would have been cut off as the first gunshot cracked and echoed through the chamber. It had been aimed at me, ricocheting off the breastplate of the dead king, as the closest of the pirates realized I was to take their prize.

I took the amulet in my fist. It burned like fire, but rather than pain, it was powerful ecstasy that jolted up and down my arm. I could feel the power of it seep into my mortal shell, scoffing away any of my ailments, dispelling the limits of a meager human mind. I was a man without discernible mana and magic, but it unlocked all the secrets of the arcane world within me, and I knew spells unlike any the world had seen in 8,000 years.

Maybe power does corrupt, but even the notion of employing this power for personal gain was beneath that expanded mind. I knew of pleasures beyond sex, power beyond the rule of nations, mysteries greater than the mortal coil. It was as if I had been nothing but a child, and in taking up that rune, I grew up in an instant.

That is what it is like to hold a guardian rune. It is power in _all_ forms. To be clear, the legends that preceded it are very accurate, but there are powers greater still. The Guardian of Tristfal would scoff at this cheap stone, as would the greater archmages of Dalaran. It is better explained as a battery, in that it only gives power. The knowledge I received was not truly secrets but mysteries my empowered mind solved itself. I knew not the experiences of the king before me, nor the hearts and minds of the people around me, or other matters that would truly lead to greatness.

With this in hand, all urgency of the moment was lost. I turned in place and faced the approach of the pirates. I could see them all quite clearly now, crawling around the darkness. Faces of greed, of ruthlessness and fury, their pistols cracking in slow motion. I saw the path of a bullet on course for a peeking Amber, and it was hardly an effort to see its course diverted by the talisman.

I did not remain an observer for more than a full second. Using the power of the talisman and the knowledge of magic, I unleashed a wave of terrible power. It washed over the women and into the tunnel, cleansing it of any life, and that wave spilled further into the next room. I believe the bards call this moment deus ex, but truly in that moment all invaders were slain by my hand.

There was no opportunity for elation, however. For reasons I knew not then, that burst of power took even the rune to the grave. The bright light was carried away with it, and I was left with only a stone in my hand. The power that coursed through my body, the accelerated fluidity within my thoughts, the currents of the arcane world I could discern and touch with my fingertips, all that washed out of me, leaving me only Fellion again, and that dull grey stone broke apart in my fingertips.

Perhaps that was the curse forewarned upon the throne, I thought, as I watched the dust trickle out like sand from my palm. I was in suspension of amazement by what I had just beheld, and I knew something great and unspeakable had been lost, like the death of the ancients. A relic that cannot be recreated, the destruction of a guardian rune, the end of the Sleeper's Fiat. The broken talisman.

So I wish this story could be completed, told with amazement and wistful sorrow. But again, this tale has not ended yet.

See, what was that guardian rune a guardian of? Who slept under its power? These were not questions ever proposed or answered in the legends, only rumor of their power. Well, it was too late to ask now; we- no, _I_ had already broken it. But hey, I was the hero of the hour, right?

I remember their faces as they looked at me, having just eliminated all the pirates. They were alive though, and that's what mattered to me, at least in that moment. I didn't really ask all those other questions then either. After the guardian rune broke and the power left me, I just pitched forward and blacked out.

I woke up less than an hour later, in Amber's care. We were outside the Maw, on the green just before the shore. It was dark, with the full veil of the night sky and Ghost Light above us. It was just her waiting for me as well, with a little fire built above our old one. She helped me up and offered a cooked meal and water. I was exhausted then, but not supernaturally so, and even my wounds had been healed by the guardian rune.

I remember most clearly that she did not ask me about the guardian rune or the power I had used. She made sure I was alright, and in a subtle way ensured that I wasn't changed, but then it was just the two of us resting after a hard quest again, relieved. She revealed that we were also several thousand gold richer, and the future looked quite a bit brighter for us.

With her face glowing with the orange of the firelight, she said to me then, "I think we've finally had our real adventure."

I felt well enough to give a weak laugh, and I tried to lighten our memories of recent events by saying, "We have indeed, Ophelia."

And earthy Amber gave a little swoon and fanned herself with her hand, looking exceptionally pretty and exceptionally like those courtesans back at the Bilge's Barrels. "Oh, Mr. Daret, you do make me blush so!"

Seeing that from Amber was enough for me to laugh a bit easier, and I passed, "Tell me that isn't how you played that bastard."

With only a smile and wink, she turned back to her food and gave a wide shrug. "What happened between the charming Captain Daret and I in our flitting brush is for me and me alone to know."

I scoffed and decided to not try imagining it, telling her, "Well, I'm done with this land anyways. I say we splurge a bit, live like a king and a queen, and then make our way north. No more scavenging for petty quests."

"Agreed," she groaned, sounded very pleased by the idea, until she gave me a sly look and tease. "Are you so sure you want to leave behind your vrykul tail though? You should have heard how they swooned over you after your heroic rescue."

That caught my interest, enough that she saw it on my face and grinned viciously. I decided against fighting it and just asked, "What'd they say?"

She gave me a dismissive wave, returning to her food. "Oh, just this and that. You'd have to ask them yourself."

She didn't look up to catch my attempt at a withering glare, but she did crack a smile after so long. I tried once more, "Did you at least catch her name? Ingrid's sister?"

Amber's blue eyes flashed to me once more, still mischievous. "You can ask her yourself. The two are just over there."

My headed whipped where she pointed, and indeed the vrykuls were there, about a half mile further along the green on a little bluff. No fire, but in the Ghost Light their shapes were clear as two hooded huntresses. I even half-debated pursuing before catching myself. They were walking away, and even if I caught up to them, what would I even say?

Still, the redhead's reappearance meant that perhaps I really wasn't done with them, and I gave a half-consideration to the idea of "fate" and a potential plan for me. I thought to myself, "Just what are the odds that the one lonesome huntress at a deadbeat pirate tavern would be her very sister?"

It was then or very soon after, however, that our weary night was further interrupted by a deafening shriek. I say that literally, as Amber and I both cried out and clutched our ears, nearly headless of the fire as we pitched our heads. The sound echoed off the fjord wall behind me, and the waters before us rippled in shock. The two vrykuls stopped their walk also, I noticed.

The sound was repeated, seeming to not be muted at all by my cover, and I winced at it, but I did recognize it as a sort of unnatural bird cry. I caught Amber's gaze, and she gestured with her elbow upwards. I followed the gesture and saw just what made that unholy sound.

It was indeed a bird. A crow, recognizable hundreds of feet below it – mostly because it had to be around the size of a house. A massive wingspan, pitch as the void, and a head bigger than my body. I saw its wide beak open for another scream, and I could feel the sound rattle through my chest and hips and even to the ground beneath my boots.

The first flap of its wings that I saw carried bright lines of lightning with it, and wind swirled across the water and the land. We were all spell-bound by this monster, but it largely ignored us, heading south, over the wall of the fjord and over our heads to the sea.

The storm crow passed us by, giving its call every so often. My hands didn't leave my ears until it was miles away, and I noticed the blood on my palms when I finally did. The four of us – Amber, Ingrid, my huntress, and I – we watched it vanish into the distance, where storm clouds were obviously building over the water, and lightning struck in bright lances.

That concludes my part in the night of the storm crow, ignorant of how far south that monster flew and to what effect. We were stunned by its mystery, as one of the unknowns of the world, but after a short talk of speculation, Amber and I turned our concerns only to the approaching storm. The winds were picking up in our direction, but there was no desire to turn into the Maw again.

XxX

...We found our bedding, I forgot if we stayed there or not, but we slept easy and continued the following morning without trepidation, carried by fantastic memories and a story to tell, pockets full and us in good health," Fellion said with conclusive airs.

When the silence stretched, Lady Sylvian prompted, "The End?"

"Yeah, I suppose it is." He spread his hands before him. "There is more that can be said, about Shield Hill, the crow, and the like, but these are things that I would come to know later. Presently, there is little apparent danger, only mysteries and magic greater than I, and I believe this depreciated image should last as long as it did then."

His arms then went above his head in a deep stretch, and he said, "I will also leave off here, and take this up again tomorrow." He caught her outcry with a palm, as his hands lowered. "No tricks this time. My recitals are dragging longer than I foresaw. I wish to bathe, then return home for dinner. I should have summarized the details leading to the Maw and the betrayal, but I assumed it necessary to better explain my hand in the storm crow. To defend my actions. Now I realize I could not care less what you or the world thinks of my decisions, and I miss speaking of her. So when we continue, it will be with her, and the tales will come quicker, and the romance sharper."

The impatient Fae argued with him, beckoning with her hands. "Then come, join me in the cool waters. I will refrain from Malavier's advances. I will bring you nectar and sweets mortals know not to feast upon, to but hear your story continue. I promise these things to you. Twice I swear it. Three times, I vow, these things will be done!"

Fellion hesitated, regarding the Fae woman carefully. Her promises were welcome, and it was true he had little but a stew pot and cold bed awaiting him at his house. He looked upward to Elune, seeing the immense silver moon hardly moved from its initial position, and he idly wondered if the Fae had a hand in the passing of time here. Was it not as late as it felt?

The elf spoke again, softly, seductively, "Though I asked for your romance, I am not without fascination for your tale. The entire planet knows of the storm crow yet no one knew its origins, and origins are as essential as what is to come. Think, without your detail, what adventure is left? And how would it be known that it was the image of your Amber just outside the sea that fanned the fatal fires of your affections?"

A slow sigh passed his lips. "Fine. The story will continue with the same headstrong nature that condemned the world. Hopefully the consequences will be as slow in their revelation, allowing triumph and passion before then. But you will prepare my dinner while I bathe."

Lady Sylvian's smile was dazzling, and she gave a delighted cheer. Immediately, she turned and called to the owl still nestled in the white birch. The bird was soon to hoot and take flight, and when she turned back to Fellion, the Fae was surprised to see him already descending into the water. His clothes remained in a neat pile atop the grass.

Drifting a short distance from him, she purred, "I assume a rapid disrobing is a learned skill."

Fellion bit his tongue to resist a smile, and he turned his back to her. "She came as sudden as the breeze and left as quickly. Every moment saved in my haste was another moment spent with her."

Lady Sylvian had a follow up remark, regarding pacing and stamina once with his lover, but her attention became caught elsewhere. "I see bullet wounds were not the only concern in your travels."

"Kvaldir hooks," he grunted, then submerged. In his return, his arms went up to wipe his hair back and the water from his eyes, and the movements revealed even more scars along the expanse of his back in the moonlight. "Vrykul flame-spear," he anticipated then. His hand came to his right shoulder, where punctures made a neat ring. "This one comes next, matching one on my leg."

She recognized the bite mark of a hulking animal, but the teeth placing did not match those she was familiar with. Rather than ask, she only hummed noncommittally. "Nothing from her?"

Fellion's hands fell from his skin as he laughed. The sound was rich with genuine amusement. "'Nothing permanent,' she promised." Lady Sylvian grinned.

In time, the owl returned clutching a twined cornucopia. Lady Sylvian excitedly received it and brought it personally to Fellion, where he rested against the rock in the center of the pool. He gave it a glance, recognizing various fruits and nuts, then realizing that he in fact didn't. They appeared familiar, but the shapes did not exactly match the kind he knew.

The Fae took one stemmed sphere that appeared as a white cherry and had first bite. Beaming, she offered the woven container his way, keeping one arm over her chest though his attention was upon her smile. Fellion found a ball-shaped... fruit? Nut? He couldn't easily tell, but it was two inches wide, its shell glossy and hard.

"Rest it upon your tongue, like this," she prompted, returning the cornucopia before her to give demonstration with her free hand. Slender fingers grasped an invisible sphere and moved it to her open mouth, resting on the waiting tongue, curved sensuously. She closed her mouth, pretending it was filled, and smiled again.

Fellion did as he was told, dropping the ball onto his tongue and closing his mouth around it. Immediately, like a sugar wall, the outer layer began to dissolve into a wonderfully sweet syrup – sweet enough to have him grimace, but he made a pleasant sound, rolling the ball around his mouth. The food took on a spongy quality following that, and its taste of strong berries complemented by the syrup.

Lady Sylvian seemed delighted by his reaction, and she quickly retrieved a handful of bulbous pale berries, sea-foam green or sky blue. "Have some moonberries with it, for the inner layer."

By then, the syrup was retreating, and he welcomed the new fruit. The berries crushed like pomegranate, drenching his mouth and the ball, and there was a tang to the taste that he welcomed, mixing with the other berry fantastically. Then the spongy food broke down again, fluttering apart like it was cocoon to a hundred butterflies, and he nearly spat it out at the sensation, confused if there were living bugs in his mouth or not.

With it came yet another flavor, something warm and wholesome like fresh-baked bread – already lavishly buttered – and he salivated anew over it.

"Try all you wish," she urged brightly. "Mortals never have the eye to find the best sweets of the woods."

When he had finished that first ball, Fellion reached for another fruit, and he asked tentatively, "You mean all of this can be found in these woods?"

"Not by you," she teased, "but yes indeed. Ooh, that's the gromllic. I think only one will be best for you." It hit his jaw like the punch of the strongest vrykul brew, and he nearly coughed fire as it slid down his throat and settled in his belly. An intoxicating fruit?

The Fae ate her own 'gromllic,' showing her teeth with her grin after. Fellion slowed his selection of the foods, and he rolled one of the white cherries between his fingers while saying, "Malavier had thoroughly insisted I try your Fae foods. I assumed then it was more trickery, but I think I can see her offer may have been genuine."

"Hardly," Lady Sylvian rebuked, sounding mischievous again. "She was legendary for feeding her entertainment sanguims – lust berries, in common terms. The best foods touch more than taste buds, after all."

While chewing the white berries, Fellion briefly paused at its sensations before asking, "How is she?"

"She still has yet to leave her sanctuary since your parting, after all these years. You must have left her with powerful thoughts to affect someone so ancient." He passed no comment, only chewing thoughtfully, so she prompted, "Will Malavier make an appearance in your tales?"

When Fellion's eyes passed to her again, there was something new in the look. Lady Sylvian felt a stir as his powerful stare slid deliberately downward, and under that attention, she felt the cover of the water and her arm were wholesomely inadequate. She realized with a shiver that this must be how his lover felt under his attention; such hunger and intensity like she was the only thing existing in his world, and she was helpless to dissuade the idea. Had a sanguim been slipped into the fruit basket?

Then his eyes passed on, finding another exotic piece from the wicker horn, and water stirred as he shrugged. "No. She is not relevant to the tale. Neither was I planning on speaking of the death of Lord Isilain."

The Fae's eyes remained fastened on him, intrigued in new manners. She did not forget her vow, but she wondered... "A night with the most lovely, most irresistible of the Fae, and a love so strong that it broke her and her schemes to take him to bed. That is not the image of appropriateness for your tale?"

"Not her," Fellion settled firmly.

Upholding her promise, each fruit and nut was as spectacular as the one before, nectars and ambrosia all. When Fellion ate his fill, passed in relative silence, he left the pond and dressed with his back to the elf. When he settled again, the most obvious difference to him was the wet hair. Underlying that was a resolve that steadily built up since the intermission began. Lady Sylvian dressed in moonlight upon the isolated rock, crossing her legs for modesty when the shawl was too short to pass her navel. Slowly, she began to weave her dark hair in the moonlight, arms again like the first moment of their meeting, but now she faced him with rapt attention.

Fellion took one last breath, still tasting a dozen mixed flavors of foods he didn't think he'd ever forget, then slowly returned to his tale. "So the tale of the beryl scale. I mentioned before that this would be a warm one. That couldn't be any farther from the truth. We'll need some background first though."

He looked down to his feet, noticing them dirty again after his bath. Such was always the case in his forest excursions, and the reason for his foot bath back home, but it always struck him as very self-defeating. City life was different. Cleaner, civilized. People always held a romantic notion of traveling the world and adventuring, but it was more accurately a grimy and scavenging existence.

"We took something of a vacation, as promised," he continued, still with his attention downward. Boots. That would be a proper place to start. "Amber and I, that is. We went inn-hoping, reserving the finest quarters and calling up the keep's finest dishes. Sometimes we even splurged enough to take separate rooms. Those are interesting memories to me, laying on this grand, too-large bed alone in an utterly lavished, comfortable, temperature-regulated and incensed room. Comfy, but often lonely. I would think to myself that it needed to be shared with someone, but Amber was was excited to do "girl things," as she claimed, without a man constantly over her shoulder.

"Apart from our fortunes, we traveled northward, with a now suspicious south wind persistently at our backs. It was a wind that had started that night we saw the storm crow, pushing the sea-borne storm towards us, but even weeks after the fact, the wind remained unchanging. None had a good explanation for it, but there were rumors of mighty elf magics or a world ominously towards new change. It garnered a name, as you know, written as one word. The "southwind."

"But that was the only word of the land, and it was ultimately ignored by us. Those were pleasant days, lasting for a good month or two. Anytime you manage a proper bath every other day consistently makes for pleasant days. Understand, traveling the rugged land with a woman is a very disillusioning experience. Catching her period in the wilds is enough, but you'll go days seeing each other get dirtier and sweatier and smellier, and it'll be weeks before either of you see a bath. So those cityfolk that get attracted to women dressed in make-up and powders would have an awful time of it; you need a woman that wears well in averse conditions, with her own natural beauty.

"Anyways, we swept through Zul'Drak – the troll lands – and north still into Storm Peaks. That is where we will take up the story again, but first our brief adventures. Believe me, in that land, merely traveling from place A to B is an adventure in itself, between the lightning-wreathed pillars and the terrors of what calls that place home. The Hyldnir, a clan of frost vrykuls, are the only vrykuls that dare do such. The Ymirjar might be called the greatest of the clans, but there is a reason the Hyldnir have the easiest time of joining those ranks.

"Frosthold is the central bastion of civilization there, which is to say frozen bunkers near the peak of a precariously high mountain, preyed upon by harpies and proto-drakes alike. I don't want to make this story longer than it needs be, but so you don't think I only gathered around me parties of women, I met my good friend Baldor Rimebeard there. He's frost dwarf and often the third party member when we traveled about Storm Peaks.

"On one excursion, hardly a second week since coming, a harpy raid took the three of us by surprise. My swordsmanship and Baldor's hardiness proved true, but Amber took a savaging before we beat the witches back. Light, it was frightening seeing her clawed up in a bad way, and how all the blood stained the snow in an awful ring. We rushed her back to Frosthold for proper care, but it was a slow recovery.

"And here is where we start again, about week into her recovery. Itching for something to do, I accepted a simple request from a resident, to retrieve a few of the scales from the local proto-drakes. Something about magical properties and blacksmithing, the usual sort, but it was simple gathering, not even a fighting trip, so I set off alone to give Amber her rest."

Lady Sylvian drew attention to herself with a raised hand, as she finished her braid and threw it behind her shoulder. That crafty little smile of hers remained on her face, attuned to her rapt attention. "Just before we do, I have a simple request to implore. I would have you forget me as your audience and tell your tale as though you might write it in a book. This is no complaint of your sometimes conversational tone, but I suspect you might phrase or omit parts in concern of me, and I'd rather hear its entirety, especially the parts of her."

Fellion's golden gaze arrested her, judiciously reading into her, and he settled wryly, "You just wish to hear the intimates in detail."

The smile widened. "It is the flavor and the pleasure of a proper tale."

His stare lingered, until he drew out a sigh. "I will try, but I make no promises. I'm no bard to twist words as I please. Now, this tale begins with me alone, out in the frozen wastes. It was a weird day, I thrice-swear it, and the world was grey – all the favorable traits I look forward to in a day. And I know exactly how this tale begins..."


	4. The Tale of the Beryl Scale

_The Tale of the Beryl Scale_

* * *

With boots. That far north in the world, boots are the most essential protection a traveler may have. In my case, my fitted, comfortable traveler's pair had been traded out for a sturdy set. Hard leather, with thick bear-fur stitched to the inside, and these went halfway up my shins. Similarly packed gloves would rank second, for much the same reason.

The cold will kill you. Frostbite, hypothermia, that sort of fun. With the caution of Amber, we made sure to have all the right sort of equipment for a Northrend winter, and I was dressed appropriately. Double-woolen tunic under my jerkin, with sleeves to my wrists. Thick fur, with sheet-iron banding, bracers went atop those grey sleeves, with the ends actually tucked into my thin gloves. Thin, because my grip over my sword was essential, and we had an enchanter inscribe some warmth runes for Amber's and my own.

I was content with slacks under my riding pants, but Baldor had insisted that if I was caught in a blizzard, the cold would pierce right through and take from me both legs. As if he would know, the bloody frost dwarf. Still, the dwarves dressed me in an extra outer layer, something like a war skirt that went to my knees, and two thick leg warmers were kept in my pack as a "just in case."

See, I thought all this was useless because Amber and I recently took to using greater caution. We never left without the approval of thaumaturgists, who would use their magic to predict the weather over for the next week. Sunny, partially cloudy, they told me. All week. Should have known better than to trust a bloody weatherman.

I was about half a day out of town when the sky was heavy overcast, threatening and ominous. Fog was a rare thing, but it just so happened that day, gathering in the vales between peaks. What a view that land was though, at any part of it. True to its name, the mountain spires were literally coursing with lightning, bright veins flashing in electric blues and pristine whites. Ah, but such beauty is not without its dangers, as I recalled upon my entrance into what I call the Bowl of the Makers.

Hardly its true name, but recognizable across all inhabitants. In the center of the land was a massive span without peaks, only flat plains, and at its center was a mechanical bore into the earth. Cogs, screws, tubes, you name it, in titanic scale, spiraling lower and lower for almost a mile under the rock. No one knows its purpose, but we all knew its make. Titans, the Creators, the Makers.

Also unique in this place was its hodgepodge. From the spires that ringed the bowl, the azure proto-drakes nested in massive quantities, across every peak in the area. To the south-east and south, the Hyldnir had their villages hidden away. Massive jormungars also lived across the plains, as well as the rhinos that the drakes fed on.

As the feasting grounds of the proto-drakes, finding a beryl scale would be easy enough. The violence of their hunting and resistance of their prey would be sure to knock a few off, so all I had to do was keep out of the way and pick them up.

Satisfied that I'd made it to the bowl, my first task became finding a decent place of rest. This was intended as a two-day excursion, and night was already approaching, noticed by how the dark sky was only growing darker. There is a long list of traits for an appropriate Storm Peaks campsite, but I have no desire to share it now or bother remember the ones I've forgotten since.

So I'm going to skip forward to the next day, when I'm laying in the heart of a frantic blizzard, bleeding out of several horrible wounds, without any boots on. It should be quite obvious how poor my luck can be at times, as Fate showed her hand that weird day. The events leading to that state can be summarized as thus:

I woke up to the beginning throes of the fiercest blizzard I'd ever seen. Knowing that the fallen scales could be covered at any moment, I bolted up, skipping any breakfast or morning piss, and rushed the few miles headlong into the wide vale. I kept to the southern peaks, avoiding the jormungars, and I even found my scales in short order. Indeed I did, as they were fresh from a thrashing kill. So with heavy clouds of white mist and swirling white flakes clouding my vision beyond more than a few dozen feet, I missed the attention of the owner of these scales. It caught me by the shoulder with its maw, then threw me aside. I got my sword out, scored a few swipes against the proto-drake, but then it got my leg. Like a pup with a chew toy, it thrashed me around, sending my boots and sword off, then released me against the icy stone wall of the cliff.

Fortunately, it did already have itself a meal, so once the proud beast happily defended his territory and thought me dead, it flew off to recollect its carcass. I wasn't dead though, not quite yet, but to be honest I didn't have much hope for a different outcome in near future.

So there I was, laid out and approaching death. I say it quickly because it _happened_ quickly, but then I was alone again, left to the merciless cold and my own scattered thoughts.

So no boots and no weapon, but I thank Lady Urd for at least keeping my packs with me, strapped to my back and hips. Little hope or not, I refused to croak over something so stupid, and I struggled with my one good arm to work off my pack and get inside. The blow against the cliff was the worst of my injuries, I'd say. It dazed me, made me sluggish. My leg and shoulder were lamed, but I could still crawl, and my fingers worked on both hands.

My priority was immediately the cold. Not only was I out of my boots, but I had wounds open to the chill. Boots remain number one. See, without boots, if my feet are warm, the heat melts the snow into my socks, fatally wetting them, and I lose my feet. However, without boots, if my feet are cold enough to _not_ melt snow, my feet are already lost.

I did give a halfhearted look around to see if I could find either of them, but it was impossible in the limitation of the storm – which seemed to be getting even worse, howling wind and relentless thunder increasing in savagery. Seeing nothing, I searched my pack for replacements. Those flimsy gloves might have kept my fingers from falling off, but that rune had its limits and they were far from toasty. My hands were going numb, even as I looked.

Most immediately, I found those leg warmers Baldor forced onto me. I promised myself that if I lived through this, I'd kiss his frozen, frosty cheek when I next saw him. Thick, heavy fur tubes, the both of them. I tucked my feet into them, wrapping them over my socks, then hunted for a way to tie them closed. I found my bandages, one thin roll, and recalled that Amber carried the usual stock as our resident surgeon.

For a fleeting moment, I debated cursing the heavens and the gods and Fate for their sense of humor, but I remembered deliriousness was a trait of hypothermia and decided I needed all the sanity I could muster. The cold still _felt_ cold, and that was important to me. So I forsook handling my wounds and tore the bandage into strips, swiftly tying the leg warmers shut into make-shift and awkward boots.

I would live for another few minutes, at least, but I was at a loss as to how to protect myself. Trying to throw my blankets over me and hope my weakened body could weather this storm _might_ have worked, but of course, in my haste, I'd left them at the camp I made earlier. I did the math of how far that camp was, but I noticed how already my blood was freezing over on the outside, like the most painful scab you can imagine.

I was in a bad state. That much I knew. My pack had nothing else of use, other than the cover it could offer from sticking my arms into it, but it felt ridiculous that I might die to the storm while still possessing my wits and a good amount of energy. Snow shelter was out of the question, camp was out of the question. What could I do?

Checking my leg again, I saw that the heavy skirt the dwarves forced over me had been savaged but kept the wound from going deeper than flesh. A broken or fractured bone would have been a real end to me. I couldn't walk with it, but without anything else, I began to crawl. I got my cloak over my shoulder as best I could, I made sure my head gear was firm over my ears and nose, and I moved towards the icy cliff again, to shield me from the omni-directional winds, then crept along it, in the way I hoped my camp was.

To be honest, I lost strength in my dogged pursuit of any sort of shelter. I don't remember much of what precisely happened then, or how far I got, but I remember experiencing tunnel-vision: a dark, solid rim around my sight, and the color without the pale tinge of the storm or obscuring waves of snow. I thought it was my end, but I persisted forward.

Then I remember a body. A woman's. Probably dead to the cold, I assumed, by its state pressed against the icy wall. It was a long, hard trip to get from her feet to her back. I remember splashes of blood, of tears across her back and a mostly ruined cloak. Too weak to continue, I grabbed her cloak and forced myself over her body, pulling that cloak with me.

With nothing else, I managed to wedge myself in the nook between the corpse and the wall, with the cloak as a buffer against the chill of the latter. It was a pleasantly thick cloak, so with the final moments of consciousness, laying deathly still with the sound of the storm very far away, I hoped just a bit that it would be cover enough that I would wake again.

Then the blackness consumed me, and I was left in Fate's hands. Lady Urth may be a spiteful witch, but there are no other hands I'd rather be left in...

Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts here, while the Fellion of then was out cold. What comes next is among my favorite memories, so even if I cannot recite them well, I will at least do so in their entirety. A difficult task in itself. I reached a critical condition then, frightfully close to death, and many of my following moments of semi-consciousness like to escape my mind in a dreamlike quality.

Understand, my thoughts then were never fully lucid. So when I realized early on that I wasn't alone, I thought Fate herself had come to save me. I remember also thinking that Fate was a shitty helper, as I remained cold and hurt and weak and hungry. Then I realized Fate was injured and dying too, but I was too weak to laugh and too cold to grudge her. I only shoved my freezing body closer to her and offered whatever help my presence could.

Because Fate is more important than me, and because it was a woman.

Then I remember movement, and it was dark, and the cold felt even sharper. Despite everything between Fate and I, it appeared we were both doomed. But she was more stubborn than I, and when Fate kept nudging into my side, I tried snapping at her with no real effect. I don't know how long she insisted, but I eventually concluded that I would never be able to find the peace of rest in death with this incessant nag, and I forced my leaden and frozen body to seize the offender.

It was a pack. Not my own. I won't lie; at that point, my mind was in a wakeful dream and delirious, so this was clearly the mouth of the Bear God, and my hands slid inside it like feelers, touching all sorts of velvety bear tongue and stomach. I took a liking to the tongue, and I pulled at it, trying to take it out of the mouth. It snagged, of course, because it was a tongue, but I fought and fought with my shoulder aching and my leg was describing the color of my mother's hair, and then I finally managed to weasel the tongue out.

Then the tongue was food, which I needed to smear over my body to eat. And once I did, I was floating in a meat cloud, amazed, so I also spread the food over Fate, and she thanked me.

Mind you, outside of these hallucinations, it was the heart of night and the pitch darkness of night. All visuals were formed within my own failing mind. And the temperature was still dropping.

Thankfully, Fate had a better constitution than I, and she recognized the threat. My mind recalls none of this, but there was movement between us. Stiff, freezing, aching movement, with heavy aggravation of our wounds. But my wits were not about me until light crept like death unto us once more.

I remember warmth then. Not in the light, which betrayed the raging storm, but just over my body. The sane part of me told me I reached hypothermia, but I was too weak to panic. The delirious part of me told me my limbs were wedged inside the guts of the Bear God, and that was the source of the warmth.

It was some time of admiring the morbid scene of my submerged limbs before I realized my eyes were closed, but when I cracked the lids, I had to blink away the contrasting images of bear guts and sleeping woman. I preferred the latter and focused on it, and I recalled and recognized the presence of Fate. A part of me told me that wasn't quite right, but there was so much disconnection in my mind I couldn't make sense of an alternative.

I stared for what felt like days, because Fate was pretty. Haggard, but lovely, and I thought I put up a good fight against the hungering blackness in my mind. In truth, it was about three seconds after waking before my head lulled forward, and my check fell against the warm skin of her chest.

Then movement woke me once more, and I realized things were much brighter than they had been a second ago. It had to be only a second since my cheek touched that warmth, yet Fate was gone, and I was staring at an icy cavern wall with the dull drone of a violent storm. And there was a topless Fate who forced me over, clutching red meat in a tight fist. No words passed, but she took a large bite of the meat, and when her powerful, supernatural – this is Fate, after all – eyes came unto me, I knew to follow suit and take a bite.

The food was tough, and though I gnawed, I couldn't separate a piece for myself. I kept chewing at it, falling into a mindless repetition, to no avail. I woke up again with a palm sliding my head back, and I noticed the food pulled out of my mouth. Food. I needed to eat food, but I was too weak to chew, I realized. My body was shivering, and I couldn't even notice the confines of my armor against my skin any longer.

But my attention came unto Fate again, and I saw her rip off the piece I failed against and chew it before me. There were no thoughts as I watched. No thoughts as she leaned over, and no thoughts when lips came against mine. And there were no thoughts when pre-chewed food was forced past my chattering teeth, and no thoughts when I swallowed that food. But that pattern repeated again and again, until blackness took me once more.

I awoke with a start soon after. I still had the taste of the jerky in my mouth, so it must have been quite soon. There was a frantic clarity to me, though Fate was pressed close and unconscious once more. I had no control of my thoughts then, but they did tell me things I wished to know. I was in a cave, under a blanket. The storm raged hard only a few feet from us, at a medium sized mouth, and my frantic thoughts touched upon time, and sunset, and time again.

Without control, I threw myself away from the blanket, rolling onto white snow completely naked. I scrambled to the cave mouth and dug my hands into the nearby powder that was building. Flakes came upon my once again freezing body, and blood began to drip from reopened wounds, but my hands were wild as they dug into the powder and shoved it to the sides of the cave mouth. In moments, I had a snow wall building. It was maybe only half finished when the same urgency that threw me into the task sent me scurrying back towards the blanket, slapping at the white flakes over me, and then I buried myself inside it once more.

I remember looking towards Fate with trepidation, but at the first contact against my now icy skin, her sleeping lips twitched towards a frown, and a surprisingly strong hand grabbed my freezing body and wedged it close to the furnace-warmth of her skin. I smiled then, again not under my control, but I noticed that I was garnering control of myself once more, just as the blackness returned for my mind. I blacked out.

I awoke to another round of complete blackness, but also noticed movement. Skin slid against skin in the darkness, and I did not know which part of Fate I was touching. Yet nature called to me, and I reluctantly drew back from her warmth to decide how to relieve myself. I was in no condition to go scrambling about the dark, so once my seeking hand found the crunchy snow outside the blanket, I slid my tired body that way. I was naked, so it was only a matter of lifting the blanket away from me and letting go.

The reminder that piss is warm and survival is dirty touched along my thoughts, but as much as I wanted to stick my freezing hand in the warm stream, I knew it would be temporary relief and that wetness took to the cold faster than dry skin did. I did my business and curled away, back towards the warm body that shared my fate.

I stopped when I reached the snow again, realizing that the bed was empty, but I marveled in the warmth her body had left behind. I don't know if I blacked out or not, but a hand came upon my belly, bringing my attention back to the present. It felt my sides, the length of my legs, then the position of my arms. Then Fate was back under the blanket, taking my old spot.

Fate had a presence appropriate to her supernatural nature, I realized then. She embraced me in her warmth, never the other way around, as though I were but a child beside her. As my feet touched her legs and my arms sought her, however, I felt her guide my blind attention to an object. As I was slowly growing accustomed to in that perfect darkness, my hands felt its shape and identified it as a skin – like a wine skin. And in that moment, I realized I was absolutely parched. I didn't even know how I could have managed to urinate at all, for how dehydrated I was.

I took to the drink and may have taken more than I was meant to. It was an exotic thing, not quite juice and not quite alcoholic. Smiling in the dark, I attributed it to Fate, and did my best to slide flush against her body when I was finished. In my somewhat clearer mind, I knew the dichotomy in my regard for this other survivor. The intelligent part knew that an embodied "Fate" was a ridiculous notion, but I knew not another name for her, and more quirks kept her apart from humans than among them.

Her identity became the least of my concerns that night, as the nightly chill built once more. The storm raged as violently as ever outside the cave, but even its sound was further muted by my snow wall. It was just two bodies in the cold and dark, sharing what warmth they could still manage. My shouldered ached and my thigh throbbed, and I recalled that Fate's body was more injured than I. Nothing specific about her hurts, but I remembered she had them, and I knew that between the two of us, we had become fairly caked in dried blood.

How we looked was irrelevant in the blind black, however. Instead, I remembered her nudity by touch. Her skin was heavy gooseflesh, and her nipple like a rock against the upper reaches of my back. Despite seeming like the warmer between us, she shivered into our hold, and I wondered at how much blood she had lost. I couldn't do much about that – couldn't do much at all, really, which was frustrating in itself. Yet I remember adjusting against her, positioning lower, with my head in the nook between her chin and neck, and I took her hand in mine, pulling her arm against my chest and lacing the fingers of my left hand through hers.

...I should have noticed it then, but I wasn't in the right state of mind. Anyways, I meant for the gesture to be supportive, as a sort of "we're in this together" vibe for her. I don't know if she managed to read into it, but very quickly I noticed the crush of her breast into my right shoulder – the wounded one – and I unconsciously shifted to free it from the trap of our bodies. It is less obvious in the dark that she is generous in that department, but quite obvious when her breast slides free and falls against your neck and cheek like a pillow.

To be honest, I was too tired and too weak to have any guilty thoughts over it, and she was warm. That arm I had trapped against me acknowledged me with a weak squeeze, pressing me closer against her chest. We endured the night.

I drifted in and out of sleep from then. At least, I would call that sleep. It is difficult to differentiate sleep and unconsciousness from then, but it felt more voluntary that night, and I assumed the worst of my trials were ending. In the few times I woke, I took responsibility for the two of us, feeling after my pack and finding food and drink. The first light of dawn was showing during my second intermission, but I still went to sleep right after, unconcerned.

Eventually, I woke up once more, weak and exhausted, but I noticed in the light filtering in that the storm had quieted. I did not care to get up and check its exact state, but the wind was a moderate sound now, and it passed without any violence. I doubt it was the bright and sunny, partially cloudy day the thaumaturgists promised me, but it seemed the blizzard was dying out finally.

My attention turned to my companion Fate, who in our current position had her back to me. She had a broad back, much wider than my own, peaking out from the blanket to just below her shoulders. I studied the musculature of it, the details that interrupted its otherwise flat expanse of bronze skin. She had scars, notches of white and pink torn into her, and also thick scabs from her latest incursion.

It was then I finally realized Fate was a vrykul, which explained most of her peculiarities. A year earlier, the realization might have worried me, but I was twenty now, and experience in the deep south had tempered me to the half-giant peoples. Already, I felt familiar with this one regardless of race. I remembered holding her arm against my chest early into the last night. I only stared, still weak and sore, still warmly embraced and alive, and mused to myself, _So Fate is a vrykul._

The name stuck, though the entity was dispelled. I remained distracted, but I peeled my arm from the warmth of her side and raised it to that exposed sliver of back. My fingers touched her skin, finding it burning now. I swallowed as I noticed finally her feverish warmth, recognizing there was nothing I could do about that, but I felt a small relief that she had stopped shivering. Something itched in my mind, some very distant memory, which I picked at idly while my fingers began to trace along the visible scars of her back.

My touch must have wakened her. As I drew the silver runes along her skin, I could feel the vibrations as she muttered, "Hætta."

I stopped, guessing at the command, and apologized. I doubted it was an issue of taking liberties with her body, and I returned to my hold with her. I got the blanket back over her shoulders, having to inch myself higher to keep our heads level, and that involved untangling my legs from between her thighs. My feet missed her warmth immediately, but my mind became distracted by her hair. It was a sodden crimson, nearing the brown hues, also long and lank, easily as wan as we two were.

Yet it captivated my whimsical attention, without her scars as distraction. Dark strands separated from the mass in little lines over her neck, across her cheek, over her ear. A few lay near my face. Just an empty stare, until I began to fall asleep again.

It was still light out when I woke. Brighter even. I discovered we had moved since before, that she lay on her back now, and I used her right bicep as a pillow. I was parched and famished once more, enough to motivate me through my weary state. I rolled over to reach my pack, but I had hardly lifted myself away before her outstretched arm opposed my absence, drawing me back in until I was hugged into a sleeping Fate's chest once more.

I know it was unintentional, but the action dragged my wounded thigh directly over the coarse fur blanket we used the whole way. I had to constrain myself from yelling, and once the flaring pain began to die, I struggled to wake Fate, urging her, "Food. We need to eat."

The strong grip over me loosened, and I eased myself back flat. I lifted the blanket to assess the damage, but all I saw was an ugly dark mass on my leg. I assumed it to be reopened anyways, then lowered the blanket once my attention began to drag towards the exposed skin of her stomach beside my legs.

Gingerly, I went back to my pack, did a quick inventory of my rations and was glad to see a decent load remained. Amber may have held the bandages, the leather and cloth, and the general supplies, but I carried the tools and the food, always in generous amounts for the latter. I took one pack of rations for me, two for her, and then my big hard-leather bottle of water. I noticed also a tin of rum I hadn't taken a likening to and considered using it towards my wounds.

Silly as it sounds, it was painfully difficult to remain separated from Fate for long. I think everyone knows what it is like to get up bare on a cold morning, shivering and feeling awful. Doing so with open wounds – _shivering_ with an open wound, more precisely – is a new sort of agony, and exposing yourself to that kind of weather with such a dreadfully weak body is its own thing as well.

Fate and I really had no choice but to wedge close until we were stronger. Well, I had no choice, at least. I know a bit more about vrykul physiology regarding the cold now, but it would be a miserable recovery for her had she been alone. And, well, if I hadn't found her as I did, we both would have perished to the storm.

As it went, I nestled deep into her side once more with the food, and we ate in silence. My eyes were to the mouth of the cave, where the storm had further closed the wall I built, but my attention was inward, considering my wounds. I had a basic hunting knife in my pack, and at this point, the least loss would be to cut strips from one of the massive vrykul blankets. There were two, the one we lay on and the one above us.

That led me to recall where they came from, and I could only snort at the memories of my hallucinations. When you start rubbing a tongue on your skin to eat it, you know you've gone nuts. I am eternally grateful said tongue happened to be a massive blanket, and that she had arranged it properly after. Or at least I believe she did, as I have no recollection of the end.

I remained distracted to meal's finish and after we swapped the bottle back and forth. Fate sought a return to a comfortable position with me, but I was resolved to not return to sleep again until my wounds were properly dressed. I thought of my clothes, which I had a vague sense should be on her side of the bed. I might manage strips from the ruined war skirt, or at the least we could use our cloaks or clothes for further insulation from the cold come night. I was reminded of my enchanted gloves, which Fate must have removed thinking they were only thin, flimsy cloth.

Fate was out asleep again by then, with me only flush against her side and hip. I also noticed the beginning eruption of gooseflesh along her skin, and I knew I should be swift. I went to my pack again, found my knife and the rum, then measured out the strips I would need for two good bandages. It was not as quick as I hoped, as I then needed to scrape down the thick fur of the blanket to get to usable leather. I had to work under the blanket, awkward as it was, and I knew I couldn't hope to properly clean either of my wounds. I also noticed how grossly bloody my body was then, with dried smears everywhere, and I gave a concerned look to Fate. Her head was turned away, but I saw her shivering again.

With a silent curse, I just splashed myself with the rum, which smarted something fierce at the leg and I felt nothing with at the shoulder. Then I drenched the bandages, did my leg, then did my shoulder, and I left the supplies in the snow before inching back to Fate. My shoulder was only briefly exposed to the air, but already I could feel the bandage stiffening and aching more than it should. I can't guess what the temperature was in the cave, but I knew I needed to rely on the feverish warmth of Fate if I didn't want my bandages to freeze to my skin and likely afflict me with something worse than I already had.

My own body was a matching suit of gooseflesh and wild trembling when I reached her, and at my insistence, the giantess seized me and held me tight. We endured once more.

I woke up to the dropping temperature of sunset. The cave was darker, but muted light could still be seen outside the small opening. Fate must have sensed the change as well, as I had hardly turned my head when I noticed hers begin to lift. Perhaps we were in synch in a way, like how I hear heartbeats do between sleeping couples. I wished to ready us for the new night, and I began to propose some of what I wanted, only to immediately stop short. Oh, we were _perfectly_ synchronized alright.

Our eyes had met, firmly and intimately. And I realized in that moment that despite our time together, I had yet to really behold her face. Oh, I saw it, but I was either too incoherent or too busy to actually look at Fate's true face, and this only occurred to me right then, when my eyes met hers and hers pierced right through mine.

When the words died on my tongue, it seemed to snap into place for her too, because those eyes went from a watchful blue, colored like a robin's egg, to a silver stare sharper than my belated sword could ever dream of.

I let out a breath, or I should say my breath was taken from me. Yet there was no burst of excitement to support my revelation, and I shook my head as though I still had a bolt loose in my head. Hallucination, it must be. And we did not have much time to wait. I forced out, "Food, dinner. Then cloaks and clothes, for cold."

Fate nodded her mahogany cowled head once in affirmation, but her large vrykul hand patted my chest as she returned, "Start. For me, nature."

We were eloquent speakers, the both of us. I think it was a combination of our physical states, and the effort, with a presumed language barrier. She could speak full Common, I was sure, but for an underused second language, it was just easier to simplify it as we did.

At our mutual agreement, I watched the fortification of will show over her face, and then "Fate" lifted herself from the bed to prowl towards the deeper recesses of the cave. I was given what might have been a stellar view of her backside, if not for the obvious savaging her body had recently gone through and a coat of bloody grime matching my own. As it went, in the bleakness from recent events, my glance was little more than an inspection of her condition, and then I was after the piles of our clothes.

I seized what I could, brushing off snow until my fingers were numb, and then put my gloves back on. Again, they were nothing toasty, and a far cry from "Fate's" skin, but they did their job. Then I found drinks in her bag, and food anew in my own. Double rations for me, five for her. A heavy blow to my stock, but we could use it.

I noticed movement and saw her return. Well, I also saw the body I had been so intimately confined with from the front now. I'll admit, it was easier to forget the wounds from this end, and blood could not mar what I saw then, not when she wore it like badges of honor. Yet our nudity was only a method of survival, not any pleasantry, and no further thoughts or even attractions passed through my head. If there was to be a spark to a flame here, it would be in our confinement and commitment to the other, not any peek at our disheveled bodies.

I wish I could have followed suit in an equal show of not caring. I was tired of pissing off the side of the bed and burying it under other snow, but my leg confined me. Instead, I welcomed her return with her own cloak, adding another layer to our bundle before we returned under the blanket. I noticed as we did the tenderness in how she lowered herself, all balance and bracing, and wondered if that was a result of her injuries or a method of a vrykul.

When the quantity of food was revealed, I caught a smile on her chilled lips, and she told me through the clip of a heavy vrykul accent, "Much love." I shivered, itched once more by memory, while she added, "And smart."

We ate and drank as the light outside continued to dim, until our bellies were full and our hearts glad. And the teeth of the cold came for us once more, sending us into another rigid embrace, but the layers around us left us less desperate than before, and we faced each other in the total darkness, with my human head to hers, with her breasts against my naval and my legs entwining only so far as her thighs. I pulled the blanket over our heads, as it changed our visibility none.

In that black confine, I think for the first time I could actually say I was comfortable. I would also say that for the first time our hold didn't feel as though wholly meant to push back death. And I recalled Fate's eyes, the features of her face, the sound of her voice, the cast of her smile and the peculiarity of her walk. It was impossible, yet I murmured under that penumbra veil,

"It's you..."

She made a sound between her teeth, like a scoff, and chided, "Why do you speak? Yes, I am me. Regardless of if I am who you think I am, I am me."

Despite the rebuke, I found myself smiling, feeling crazier and more certain than ever. "Well, if you had told me your name back in Howling Fjord, I would ask more directly."

Indeed it was so; Fate was none other than my huntress! Nearly a thousand miles displaced now, across empires and a new gulf of time, we had found each other once more. It was only appropriate. I had saved her life before, she had saved mine, and now we had saved each other.

The thought had me laughing into the ensuing silence. It should be called a fit of mad giggling, but in my condition it was just a shake of my shoulders. But the silence was a powerful thing, enough to have me wonder at it, and I thought I was succumbing to sleep once more. I was, actually, in that timeless bubble of warmth and black, but in the final moments, with sleep biting at the very edges of my mind, I heard her whisper in distant shock,

"Fellion..."

To be honest, I didn't even recognize the word, and I ignored it to give into oblivion.

It was a fitful night from there, plagued by restlessness and wild dreams the whole way. I saw the white stag and pirates, treasures and vrykuls, with a cast of Amber and Captain Daret and Ingrid, and at the center of it all, visible but distant, present but apart from it all, was the red haired huntress I had met twice before.

She appeared different in my dream, which is important for why our realization was so slow in coming, much as I'm sure I appear vastly different now than she recalled. The huntress in my dreams had short hair of vibrant color, and skin of glowing bronze. Her face was a perfect image of beauty, each feature tailored specially to that task, and I recalled more of her strong confidence and steadiness than mere features. The woman trapped within this cave with me was pallid and wan, bowed by recent events though not broken. As for me, I had a few days' scruff to shatter my former image, probably with a frostburned nose and cheeks, and I couldn't guess how my hair might be different. Perhaps she knew me by my clothes then, and even that was gone.

When I woke the next morning, unsettled by my dreams and the contrast in image and memory, I convinced myself her saying my name was a part of my dream, and that I must be going crazy in our confinement. Not every vrykul I'm directly involved with must be her, I told myself.

We still had the blanket over our head when I awakened. Wanting to see her face once more, I slowly peeled it back, regretting it the instant the sharp cold returned for my head, but I needed to know. It revealed her head to me, also having dragged a few strands of hair loose from her, and I stared. The injuries did their work on her complexion, and even asleep her eyes had sunken rings around them. Yet the longer I looked, the more the image in my mind began to conform to look like this woman, until I no longer had anything to compare against.

I was frustrated as the memory within the dream slipped away from me, still unresolved on the issue. However, the return of the cold wakened her, and I saw soft blue eyes open. There was a pause, then the eyes slid up and stared directly into my own. As it seemed to go, in that very instant the memory returned like living flesh within my mind, and all my certainty returned with it. Either this was a second sister or the huntress herself. Give her hair a wash and real sunlight, and it would be the same red shock as before.

Her eyes went right through my haggard display, another telling sign of her I'd forgotten by then, and there was a moment of mutual recognition. In her eyes, I could see it, the same wondering I'm sure my own reflected. As before, I wondered if we'd even have the luxury of bringing it up.

With my palm against her shoulder, I told her, "Your skin is burning up. You have a fever."

And her hand touched my chest, and she said, "Yours is as death, cold and sickly."

It was her words that finally unraveled the old memory itching at the outer rims of my conscious. Almost a year ago, in the hunt for the white stag. I touched her shoulder then, similar to now, and I had felt such heat from her then. Was that heat natural to a vrykul? Was this feverish warmth a sign of health, for a race native to the Northrend climate?

I shared my speculations with her, in not so many words. She made another sound between her teeth, adding after, "No heat. If I had known, I would not have saved you in hope to share warmth."

I heard the joke in it, enough to elicit a little grin from me. Our gap in temperature was a candle to the sun when compared to the ice and air. There was silence between us again, and my thoughts returned to the huntress, until I finally was forced to ask, "You are she, from the white stag and Sleeper's Fiat?"

The silver attention her eyes gave me was a powerful thing, but I waited patiently, for time was all that we had now. As I did, I imagined tribal markings in blue paint, which would be upon her cheek but was presently missing. There would be thick and round vrykul clasps upon her shoulders, for her cloak, and cuirass of dark browns. I tried to remember the wear- that is, the dress of the unconscious women I had crawled over when I entered this cave, but back then I lacked perception, and my mind still proved fatigued.

My attention sharpened back on her when she sighed, softening her expression, and her warm fingers came to my cheek, first then tips, then a knuckle dragging over the stubble. She told me, "Everywhere I go, you seem to follow. Do you hunt me?"

It was impossible, yet she confirmed it. Fate was the huntress of my past. This woman, whom by the tiniest sliver of chance I found in this cave, whom took care of me as I did of her, was the same who almost stole my prize in Grizzly Hills, then later seized my thunder at the bottom of Howling Fjord. And a breath was blown against an ember, and the tinder smoked black.

I gave a small shake of my head, where all I could say was, "This cannot be coincidence."

"Three times, you saved my life," she continued, still with her fingers upon my face. "The hands of Urd are behind this."

It is a convenient thing, that Common is a descendent language of Vrykul – which, as it went, is a descendent of Titan, but that is not for now. I heard the word as Wyrd, and I gave a genuine consideration to Fate as a being – outside of my earlier delusion – as well as active gods who shape mortal life. These tales I say began with weird days, I recognized their weirdness even before this moment. I thought of the bears in the road and my flight to Amber, and the storm that should not have been.

In reply, I groused, "This Wyrd could have left out the part where I get mauled by a proto-drake." Yet more seriously, I added, "You have saved my own life twice... But we aren't through yet."

She understood and asked, "Food?"

"Enough for days, but little to drink. You?" It is a silly notion, but despite being literally surrounded by frozen water, fluid is a real concern out there.

Her lips set in a remarkable way, not quite a pout but something pensive and displeased. She said, "Little food. Little more drink." I spoke before of women that wear well, that have an irreversible natural beauty, and you can be damned certain I had her in mind as I said it.

...Alright, technically I didn't. I thought of Amber, who, while not the prettiest dame at a court ball, becomes a jewel of the roads, where other women wash out like goblin-dyed robes. But vrykuls, well vrykuls and dwarves really, cheat on this topic in their insurmountable hardiness and resistances. So though it may said that it was _expected,_ I still noticed a shining beauty to this woman so close to death.

Have I fallen offtrack of the story? Not quite. See, the reason I remember these specific expressions and moments despite the years that passed since then, and speak of them with perhaps frivolous detail, is because of how it struck me so then. As I said of the night, her and I were no longer so desperate, and though we (or just me) were still a far cry from leaving the cave on our own strength, my thoughts were becoming normalized once more.

Which is to say, I was growing closer to the young fool who spoke without thinking. This is especially obvious as I continued staring at her lips and blurted, "You have a pretty mouth."

Is blurt the right word? I said it suddenly and without real consideration, but it came out factual and honest, like how I might say I was glad for the blankets. Well, I said it and then realized I did, but my cheeks were too cold to flush.

Her lips did an interesting little show of consideration at the utterance. However, I caught the fleeting edge of her smile right before she settled, "You are an idiot, Fellion. That makes you perfect for my systir." Likely the easiest Vrykul word there is, and more often than not she didn't bother adding the extra emphasis to make it Common.

I thought of Ingrid then, the blond sister I had shared a drink and a flirt with. The memory seemed more distant than it was, but it gave me a bit of a smile. "How is Ingrid? Is she up north with you?"

Blue steel eyes became metallic silver again. "She is home, with the Winterskorn." And then her large finger was pressed against my lips, as if to hold them shut, and she drawled, "You speak too much. Rest."

I was chastised enough to blush finally, and it served a reminder of the difference between the sisters. I knew I wouldn't be impressing her with any silver tongue, and I also knew I had lost focus of our plight. My back felt cold; I had drawn back a little to better look at her. "Right," I acknowledged, fighting back a shiver.

A subtle change came to my mind then, regarding her once more as Fate and not the huntress of my past. My head lowered, and my body pressed close, thoughtless to her breasts flattening against my chest. Again, my arm was around her waist, holding her hip, while my mind spun back to Ingrid, wondering.

To be honest, I did not know how I might feel if I saw her again. I was too amazed by meeting this huntress once more, in such an unlikely place, and I had spent some days with our nude bodies tightly embraced. There was an unspoken and unacknowledged bond between this huntress and I, a certain intimacy that had built, that if I were to look to Ingrid after, something would be lacking compared to her sister.

Mind, these were not reflections of romance or even attraction. Just familiarity and companionship; the notion of a human/vrykul relationship was outside my mental premise. If anything, Amber had been increasingly on my mind before this mishap. She may have been older, but I was growing up with her, and we made pleasant company, and we had formed a strong bond together over the road and our many shared trials. I assumed it to be a natural thing for us, as if love were a thing to fulfill expectations.

Which is why I call this a proper romance, not like those in a fairytale.

After my reflections on Ingrid, my thoughts touched upon Amber and her wounded state. I wondered if she was growing concerned at my delayed return, and how long it might take Baldor to come after me. He'd make an effort, but he was no tracker. There was little hope in relying on him. It was only Fate and I.

We spent the time in silence, waiting for the weak morning sun to burn away the edge from the cold. I remember listening to her heartbeat, actually hearing it for the first time. I'm sure she noticed the peculiarity of my ear against her chest, but the sound was enthralling. I'm sure you can guess how powerful a vrykul's heart must be, to supply a body so massive. I like to imagine I can feel her pulse through her skin from it, as minute vibrations that came with each clear, steady pump of her lifeblood.

The sun did its work, and we both knew it was as warm as the day would get. Neither of us moved despite it. It is a strange thing how, as my health improved, it become more difficult to ensure my continued recovery. Even at the day's best, the cold bit too hard against my naked skin. I was comfortable in Fate's embrace, attuned to her luxurious warmth, and breaking from that was a physical trial.

Why she was so content to remain in place as well was beyond my guessing. Perhaps there is maternal instinct in holding one sized like their children, especially one already under her care. Perhaps it was selfishness that matched my own, unwilling to relinquish the comfort of our position. Maybe even it was her thoughts that held her. She is quiet, this huntress, but her thoughts are only that much more powerful behind those fantastic eyes, full of subtle activity.

As for me, I thought of our embrace and the direction of my life. Particularly, the expensive but empty quarters Amber and I had rented in our splurge, and the many times I lay awake contemplating the absence of a partner beside me. Typically, Amber had been a speculative devotee to the hypothetical position, which is a fancy way of saying I imagined her beside me, but now I had spent days inseparable with such a woman. I can't call it a pleasant revelation of my earlier daydreams, not when her and I are riddled with holes, smeared with blood, and days unwashed – but once I looked past those details, it was just... nice to have someone there.

I didn't feel any urgency to get away from the huntress, and I want to again emphasize the nonsexual nature of our company. This wasn't excuse to feel up a naked woman. As I recovered and left my desperate state, I certainly began to notice it more – and there were moments that my body had natural responses that neither of us made an issue of – but I dare to say it was a purely companionable presence.

I believe this to be a product of her as company. Years later, I am sure that had it been Ingrid I was confined with, vrykul or not, we would have eventually gone at each other like snow hares at the break of spring. She is not one to remain so chaste and pragmatic.

Eventually, we reluctantly relinquished our warm hold to find our packs for breakfast. We practically ate under the blankets – anything to escape the cold air. This resulted in what was often a full view of her body, except her legs which I could only catch as far as her thighs, and the rest would continue with their great length into the farthest depths of our furry home.

The dimmed light beneath the blanket did its job in removing the otherwise unpleasant details of our current states. That left the rest, which tested the conviction of my earlier comments. Before, when describing her in the Maw, there was a line I wished to say but couldn't find a place for. It was: There is poetry to describe a woman composed of so perfect of parts, but not by threat of death will you take those words from my tongue.

This is even more apparent without the obscuring of her clothes and armor, no matter how snug that armor fitted to her frame. I wasn't so completely ignorant of a woman's form, but I noticed features I took an eternal liking to under that blanket, despite the most of my attention being focused forward, to returning to Frosthold and recovering my strength with food and rest. For example, the wideness of her hips should be a crime. Her core, which appeared strong and thick, was dwarfed by those hips, and when reclined on her side, it led to an exaggerated cinch at her waist that stole my attention again and again.

Which should say much, considering all else that was visible. Her breasts were becoming a semi-familiar sight, but they were nowhere near a casual regard, no matter how often I had been pillowed by them. I didn't know by comparison what a well-shaped breast was, but I knew hers were no disappointment to my expectations, and persistently cold-hardened nipples were as fine an introduction as a man can get. Survival or not, the forbidden pleasure of my view was not lost to me, and I will not lie on how my attention dragged downward, to that which separated her as a woman. The shadows of the blanket and a dark mass of hair obscured the specifics, but so appropriate was the naturalness of her pubic hair to her strong frame that I believe my tastes have been skewed since. I had assumed all women appeared so, but when later I encountered the variations of styling and shaving – and I am looking at the vanity of the Fae here – I found it artificial and lacking to a natural grooming. This is similar to encountering the nobility who powder their face white as flour; they find it most attractive, but to me who was raised outside the practice, it appears artificial and sometimes even comical. Such is women who wish to be bald down below.

Annnnd I can't believe I just said at that to you. And your grin isn't helping. Light, woman, stop giving me that look and go braid your hair again or something.

Anyways... So young, innocent Fellion had his first good look at a woman, but I was far from only staring at the forbidden fruits of flesh. Distracting as though they are, that sinful curve of waist and hip was near equally enticing, and the revealed thighs, and the details the downlight gave her abs. And I noticed the shape of her shoulders, which led to arms and a back used to regularly setting a vrykul crossbow by hand. The notion of a feminine strength returned to me, though I was trying to focus on my abandoned camp only a few miles away. She knew I looked at her – how could she not – but I am vindicated by her own returning attention, the intimidating study of her eyes, when she was not focused on her food.

Unbidden, while watching her hand and mouth and throat as she ate, I said, "You have worked hard for your body." I suppose I wanted to explain my attention, an excuse other than curiosity. Her light colored eyes came to my own and stared, nearly driving the breath from my lungs, yet I still added, "It shows, all the effort you must have put into it."

Light, that stare is arrestive, and as she said nothing back I couldn't help but first feel foolish for speaking, then again for even bringing up that I had essentially checked her out. When I finally decided I'd like to breathe again, I broke from her gaze to look down at my food and nibble bashfully. Ingrid, I thought to myself, was a dozen times more approachable than her sister.

But we finished eating, and she pulled me back to her body without even a slight hesitation. And later, when she turned over, she took my hand with her and held it to the center of her chest like I had hers before, with me flush against her back. And when I noticed the presence of her breast against my arm by the position and had a... physical response, I tried to distance that part of us, only for her to perform a loud, irate sigh and scoot her bottom back against me, heedless of my dilemma.

Though she said nothing, I could almost imagine her chiding in that pleasant, resonate voice of hers, "Fuck your awkwardness and _calm down_, Fellion." The thought had me smiling, amused at my own nervousness. And I did calm down, both my nerves and my inappropriate excitement, and I trusted in Fate once more.

And most importantly, which has stuck with me more so than all else from that time: once I calmed, I opened my fingers slightly wider where they were splayed against her chest, and she weeded her thicker vrykul ones in between and laced our hands together. It was a firm and striking reminder that "we are in this together" as I attempted earlier, and the demonstration of her commitment – in both of her actions – had my heart skip a beat.

The final part of me just stopped caring right then, stopped thinking of Amber and Ingrid and of women and the distracting parts of them. I gripped her fingers tightly between my own in response, and the arm draped across her side and hip clutched her to me. I couldn't think of anything else but the gesture, pressing my face against the skin of her back, and I knew the companionship the wistful part of me thought of in the solitude of those lavish hotel rooms.

I don't know how long I basked in the warmth of her gesture and the heat of her skin, but there was a change in our regard when the day continued into lunch and later dinner. We didn't speak anymore, which is to say I didn't speak anymore, because I found I didn't need to. When her eyes came to my own, I didn't shy away any longer, meeting her pretty gaze until we found reason to stop staring. Night descended, and my arms came to her as easily as they might a lover.

In the creeping dusk, I had my face to her auburn hair. First I only moved it aside to stop tickling my cheek, but as we lay together, I let myself fall distracted, and I began to braid a lock of it, as I remembered from the Maw. She let me finish, then reached up to take the short braid from her neck to her cheek, and I remember watching her long fingers touch the grooves and bumps with just her fingertips, stroking along the braid again and again until it finished unraveling.

Silent thoughts. Powerful thoughts. That is what transpired that day, until the dark was true and we together pulled the blanket over our heads.

And in the dark, sight gave way to touch. We moved only to find a comfortable position, one that did not antagonize our respective wounds, until I was curled into the nook her body made from chest to thigh. We did not sleep immediately, and very quickly our hands went further than was necessary. It began with her palm flush against my chest, and my hand was atop hers. Then I started to explore that vrykul hand, in the dark where size lost its peculiarity. First it was feeling along the soft skin of the back of her hand, and then up to stroke along the individual fingers from knuckle to nail. I was hardly to the third when I felt the pads of her fingers began to press against my chest, noticing my hand's motions.

Then my hand went down her arm, feeling the bone and muscles along her wrist. I couldn't reach her upperarm, so at the elbow my hand branched downward and found her hip. Along the relaxed muscle of her oblique it felt, then up a slope of skin up her hip, where my fingers found the rigid impression of bone. I had a choice of direction but no chance to decide. My fingers moved thoughtlessly, continued down her outer thigh, over skin like silk.

I kept expecting her opposition, but her palm remained firm against my chest, and her leg curled towards my seat in response. When I could reach no further, my fingertips began to drag upward, not lightly, and I heard her exhale in the dark. I noticed the movements of her torso against my back and head as she breathed. I was enthralled by her response, and my hand sought to explore more, swiping over the stretch that could be argued as hip and the curve of her rear equally.

This was done so thoughtlessly. I meant nothing by it, or I thought I meant nothing by it. Then I felt her fingers come together over my chest, and when she gave me a little rub with her palm, reciprocating, there was a terrified jolt deep inside me. I realized I had gone too far, beyond a mere idle touch, and quickly the spider that was my human hand was reeled in by the origin of its web, up her side, down the dipping waist, and back over her arm to her hand.

The loudest sound then was my own beating heart. I just wanted to hold her hand again. In response, she made a little sound through her nose, which could have been amused or exasperated, and removed her hand from my chest – for only a fleeting second, then returned it over my hand and wrist and trapped the promiscuous explorer there. I thought of apologizing, but I was too afraid to speak.

There was stillness between us, and I guessed at her thoughts. As it stretched, I then began to hope she had gone to sleep. That impression was lost when I felt her thighs move near my legs. Again, I felt the vibrations of her voice through her torso as she murmured with her accent, "Cold feet."

Her accusation was not lost to me, sending my heart into another thundering storm, until her legs opened and caught mine between her thighs. I nearly yelped at a sensation akin to stepping into a fire pit, suddenly burning hot and furious. I remembered my wounded thigh and thought it might also be flaring up any second, but she was gentle in the trap of her legs, and I realized she meant her words literally. My feet were freezing, and she was to warm them up.

She had forgiven me my hand, I presumed, though I had a hot flush in my cheeks. I don't know if she realized, but I was now pressed to her groin rather than lower belly and thigh. It was an inescapable fact, now able to feel the hair of her womanhood against me. But her steady confidence and lack of concern touched my mind, and I sought the calm of before. I felt tension in my back begin to relax, without having realized it was even there beforehand, and my cheeks cooled.

I was going stir crazy, I told myself. Jumping at the smallest things, acting without regard. I needed to focus on getting the two of us out of here. I shook off the clamp of her hand, only to take it into mine once more and catch her fingers between mine. She allowed it, and I did my last bold move of the night. I brought her hand to my lips and pressed a kiss against her knuckle, then sought sleep in her hold. It was never too far off, and I drifted off.

There was an unspoken agreement to us the next morning. We were going to try to leave this day. I knew it when I woke, and I knew she knew it when our eyes met that morning. What kind of cues indicate that mutual understanding? It's hard to say, especially since it has been some time since then. First there was the lack of drink, which we were on the last bottle of. I knew her wounds were healing supernaturally fast as well, and that she was able to move about freely once more despite the scabs along her back.

So I figured today would be the day, and when her eyes looked into mine, I saw finality in that look. A soft blue and gentle regard were in them. At first, I thought she was resolved on something from the last night, but our stare held, and I noticed the deliberate extension on her part, enough to realize she, like I, meant this to be our final moments. So I stared back, and I did my best to memorize that face, to sear it into my mind like the beams of moonlight had nearly a year prior.

Good things are done in threes, and this, our third meeting, could be our very last. Ah, Light, she was so beautiful, even then. I don't know what she was looking at in turn, except a scruffy and broken human man. Perhaps that's why her eyes remained firm on my own. I think she likes my eyes, though I doubt mine can capture her like hers do me.

I could be misremembering this, but I think I wanted to kiss her. I didn't do it, and I don't recall why I wanted to, but there was just something to that intimate, final moment that makes me think I was going to kiss her. But it passed as all things do, and we found our resolve and began to find our clothing and armor.

I watched her leave the bed and dress, noticing the improved health – if not cleanliness – compared to the first time I watched her. Her wide swaths of skin found cover again, and I winced when she did as certain motions pulled on her lingering wounds. I remember how, once she had her pants on, she turned to me still topless, her pale skin finding a vivid glow in the morning light. My breath caught in my throat for a moment, and I blamed the awful cold on that, which permeated my mouth like a bad taste.

"Need help?" she pressed. I shook my head, with a new visage branded into my skull. She had brown areola, which capped with redder nipples. It makes for a stark contrast with pale skin, when she had been long without the bronze tan of the sun.

My mouth was dry when I turned away to dress myself. I was slow in the act, not for reason of distraction but rather my wounds. The shoulder moved alright if taken slow, but the thigh decided slacks were a thing of the demons, refusing any confining touch over the thick bandages I had made. I managed in time, as again time was all we had.

While I fought with that, the huntress finished well before me, and while she waited, she began to braid her hair. What would I know about that, being a young and sometimes foolish boy with only a few feats under his belt? But when I turned around finally, dressed in my mostly-whole garb once more, I saw her mane feathered with a few little braids that were closed by little strands of leather. It was a good look for her, though I kept the words from my lips.

I stared at her for a bit. I think she expected that. Well, I know now that she did, but I figured it was time to throw her through a loop. I made an expectant cough and gestured to the leg. I remember that blink of hers, slow and surprised, and I added the kicker with a dry, "A little help?"

Ah, I wish I knew Vrykul then. She muttered what was surely an impolite word in it, then was to me with one long stride. When she stooped to help me stand, she caught my smile and paused. I might not be the most clever guy around, but I can be intuitive sometimes. There had been something expectant in her when I saw her with the braids, something I felt was lost in the translation of our cultures. This was only confirmed by her response to my little tease, so I took a gamble.

With her closer now, I reached out and touched one of her braids with my fingers. I said nothing, but I smiled, hoping she'd read into it as a joke. Again, I had no idea what the braids meant, so I gave the most general example of _noticing_ them without any further inclination of my reaction. My gamble paid off in a reproachful look that couldn't completely hide her wide smile.

Then we got me to my feet again, where I could hobble poorly but remained standing. And I was using the legwarmers as boots again, for the record. The huntress I still referred to as Fate gathered up her blankets again, ready to store them away, and I considered the exchange with the braid in greater detail.

There had been nothing to it that I remember from the Maw, but that had been one braid then and three now. I doubted they had numeric meaning, and I considered the brief time I had braided it the night before. Had I accidentally done something that holds meaning in their culture? I swore to myself then that if a man braiding a woman's hair was a marriage ritual or something of that ilk, I'd- I'd-! Well, I gave her another look, where she was bent over the bedding, and I reconsidered my hasty rejection of the notion.

There! Right there, I considered a relationship with a vrykul for the first time. It was a bizarre and baffling idea, but I found nothing intrinsically wrong with it. On the contrary, I had specific examples to call upon that it could even be pleasant. Give her and I a wash, a warm room, a real bed, and...

She turned, catching me staring at her impressionable rear. I turned quickly, finding the cave ceiling to suddenly be the most fascinating thing in the world. I heard her snort, and I flushed with a little grin. Thank the Light we were getting out of there; I didn't want to see things get any weirder, if I was stuck with her for longer.

When we were all ready, we came to the snow wall that still mostly closed us in, and she shoved it all aside in a single pass of her gloved hand. I'd like to say we stepped out into sunlight, in this triumphant and heroic image with dazzling rays or what have you, but instead we only moved from the pink to the grey again.

I remember looking up with a frown, distinctly remembering light earlier, and I saw the clouds just then moving to block the sun. The grey veil stretched from directly above down to the endless horizon, with blue sky behind us and only shrinking by the second. I had a snort of my own for the weather, and Fate and I limped onward.

By the new depth of the snow, I knew better than to bother searching for my sword, boots, or even camp. I did find a few beryl scales near the cave entrance, which I took in a final determination to finish this right. We moved towards Frosthold, though there was no prior agreement to it.

As we slowly advanced, out onto the open plains once more, I asked Fate what she was doing so far north. Before, we had only met because we were two adventurers pursuing the same goals. This time, we were a thousand miles off course, and our meeting was wildly unlikely.

I found I wasn't too surprised by her answer. "Proto-drakes," she huffed. "The Hyldnir would have me tame one. It instead tamed me." Of course. We met chasing the same goal, as was the theme. But it also told me why she was all the way up in Storm Peaks as well. She was going the way of the Hyldnir, a matriarchal faction of frost vrykuls renowned for their ability in battle, also hardy enough to call this land their wonderful home.

Of course, the Hyldnir clans would also sooner castrate a man than tolerate his touch, which was a slight flaw of theirs. I asked her, "Hyldnir, yet you saved me. Aren't I just a weak and foolish male better fit for mines?"

And that grin of hers was so smug. "Yes, you are a weak and foolish male. But I am no Hyldnir, only train with the warmaidens."

Her and I, we didn't have the best time of it, but we walked all day, then walked into the night – by then I was heavily relying on her – but we reached Frosthold in one go. It was dark when we stopped, and Fate knew better than to approach the frost dwarf city. The efforts worsened my wounds by a great amount. I was glad I'd be given real treatment for it finally.

It was time to say goodbye to this wild fantasy. We both were looking at the distant light that marked the dwarven city, until she turned to me and kneeled down. I looked at that face I had grown quite accustomed to, finding it no less attractive, but before I could muster a word, she leaned forward and kissed me.

Or so I wish. She kissed my forehead, which surprised me all the same, and said, "I want to thank you, Fellion."

And I was still distracted by her kiss, but my tongue went ahead and said, "Yeah, we should do it again sometime."

I froze like I had stepped in the heart of hell. I did _not_ just say that, was my mental plead. But my brain did some investigating, interrogated my mouth a bit, then confirmed that, yes, I really fucking said that. Pardon the language, but that was the hardest I ever cringed in my life.

I tried to salvage the situation, sputtering out, "I mean-! Light, I didn't-"

She was laughing though, and the sound was wonderful. I remember the bright shine of her eyes and the genuine amusement on her, as she shoved me toward Frosthold and said, "Fara, hálfviti. Just go."

I don't do justice to how she sounds when speaking Vrykul. Her accent in Common is enticing, but when she speaks her native Vrykul, it is a thing to get blood pumping. I noticed that there, but so humiliated, I didn't speak in fear of making a larger blunder. I waved to her, then turned to do my best to limp back to Frosthold without looking back.

The guards found me eventually and aided my return inside. I got my scales to the dwarf that sent me out, passed a brief greeting and parting to Baldor, and then was thrown into the sick house with Amber. My injured friend gave me a look which was supposed to seem annoyed but was actually very relieved, and I asked if she wanted an explanation.

I got a hand thrown in my direction, and she just went, "In the morning. I'm just glad you're back. Idiot." It seemed I was getting a lot of that tonight.

But I was laid into a bed, got my wounds properly dressed and treated, and I finally had a proper rest. It was comfortable, surely, but as I drifted off, I remember thinking it lacked something very distinct, and I remembered a certain face. Then I slept.

The End.

XxX

Lady Sylvian had an intriguing look on her face, Fellion noticed. Her cheeks were withdrawn, like she had tasted something sour, yet by her mirthful eyes and the twitch of her lips, he realized she was trying to hold back laughter. He scoffed, looking away to stretch his arms.

"For someone determined to tell his tales quicker," floated her merry voice, "I believe that to be your most extensive yet, and I had no idea that such a precious Fellion existed once."

He passed a shrug. "Those were innocent days, back when marveling over a repeat encounter with a woman seemed like the most important thing that could happen. It was significant to me then, significant to me now even, but... again, innocent days. The last of them, I believe."

"I notice we still do not have a name for this huntress."

"That is because I did not yet... Fuck me, that is one of my favorite parts! I can't believe I almost forgot. Quick, go back to the cave, that day where we were determined to leave. Ahem... We shared that long, searching look at each other for an impressionable length of time, but we didn't rise the moment it was finished. There was reflection, thought, and one such for me was that point.

"So I told her quite simply, "I still don't have your name." Her eyes returned to mine briefly for it, but she only said, "You must earn it." Total, outright rejection, just like that. It stirred up a reminder of the Maw, where she claimed to hold me in suspicion. Certainly, I concluded then that the playful Ingrid had been behind it, but I realized that the sisters might not be so different in that regard.

"Her reply was a surprise, yet I was Fellion. Despite our close embrace, I freed my hand enough to gesture as I said, "And I haven't yet? After the white stag, after the broken talisman, I travel a thousand miles and fight drake and storm to find your broken body and give you the desperate aid needed to survive, including food and drink and my dashing company, and I still have yet to earn the mere sound of your name?"

"Her smile was a lovely sight, clearly appreciating my humor for once. Still she insisted, "The works of a crazy male. The first night, you muttered about meat gods and cloud blankets.""

Lady Sylvian's fluting laugh touched his ears. "She noticed?"

"She wouldn't dare let me forget," was Fellion's bitter reply. "Still, I tried to appeal to her, adding, "Delirious utterances, borne of my weakness after expending all my energy to reach you." Something like that, at least, only for her to shake her head in refusal. I finally scoffed and told her, "Fine. I'll just go back south to Ingrid. See if I care if you freeze to death." My pouting got another laugh from her, while it was that resolve that got us moving to find our clothes.

"To really appreciate these moments, you need to know the rarity of her laughter. The tale of the beryl scale is a warm one, I say. That familiarity we built up in those confines was a fleeting thing, even later. We were worn, exhausted, vulnerable, and laid completely bare to the other, but the walls rise again in time. That bright hot ember, so close to making a flame, dimmed once more. Perhaps to a darker state than even before that encounter. We met once more in Storm Peaks.

"Well, assuming that this woman is actually the huntress from before. Amber argued a solid case that I had mistaken her in the cave, that it wasn't the huntress. I can't believe I almost let her convince me, but it wasn't difficult to have me doubt myself over something so absurd as meeting her this far north. Time does that to you. You begin to doubt the things you once knew, and fantasy begins to blend with memory."

"Was she right?" the Fae asked.

"It seemed so, until we met again. Even Amber admitted to the resemblance, but we were hardly in a position to confirm identities. This next tale is a bit more unfortunate. I stand by my "good things in threes" notion, but I won't spoil our fallout just yet... Oops."

The Fae had a shrew look for his quip. "You cannot deceive me thrice, Fellion. The huntress is obviously your lover."

His hands spread, betraying nothing with his face. "I told you earlier, don't be so quick to assume. I changed and learned much from her, my appreciation for vrykuls among that, but the epithet "my huntress" was deliberately left ambiguous. All you know is that I fathered a half-a-half-giant. But you are right, all will be revealed in the tales themselves. Let us continue. This next has no name – next few, I should say. Just little shorts that warrant a detailed mention each...

"So a month became two in those rugged peaks, with Amber, Baldor, and I foolishly throwing ourselves into the jaws of death and escaping by utter luck each time. That land was harder than I, but by living, it began to change my constitution, making me tougher, meaner, and ultimately less innocent. There, when something looks at you, the chances are exceptionally good that you must kill it. You learn that by the forth or fifth time you are prone on your back, bleeding and dying, wondering why the taunka refused simple bartering from travelers, or why the dark iron would betray you so, or how the kabolds could blindly serve the masters they do.

"This came to a head near the titan-city Ulduar. Word cropped up about an emerged titan relic, and we grabbed our tested weapons and made our way to it. And so did she. By then, Hyldnir had proven a real scourge across the snow-covered lands. We skirmished more than once, and I had been made to kill a few. Hewing vrykul with a sword is a grisly affair I don't wish to describe. That these were women makes it worse.

"But it was a weird day when we reached Ulduar, though I don't remember why, and the sky bled grey..."


	5. Shorts

_Shorts_

* * *

No snow fell from that sky, but it was a near thing. The mists were heavy upon the peaks, moving in puffs kicked up by sharp winds from unmolested powder. It produced an illusion of morning fog, though the day was deep into its progress. Soon, the sun would drop low and the cold would turn its sharpest. That threshold, just before the coming of the cold, was our moment of arrival unto the flats below Ulduar.

We could see the grand bridge, shattered above us as the final standing remnants of a titanic walkway. That was above, scraping the sky with its nearly black structure, while the area around us was shrouded by the billowing snow clouds and harsh winds. Our team was Amber, Baldor, and I, dressed appropriately for the cold.

She was in furs and closed cloaks, of a light blue that did well in vanishing among the snow from a distance. Head, ears, mouth, nose – all of it covered in scarves and head protection beneath her blue hood. Only her eyes showed, if you were close enough to see them through her slitted veil. My own wear was similar, though colored in modest tans as I was intended to draw attention first in a pitch. My cloak was different only in that it had one clasp in the center, letting it close to protect my arms but easily open to allow me to fight.

Last is Baldor, who wore a sleeveless coat of titanium mail over thickly furred trousers – and that was it. Such is his race that the wind and the snow came to his frozen blue skin, and rime stuck to his crystalline beard, but its teeth found no hold in his naturally low-temperature body. I do not know the science to their skin and its pigmentation, but I remember it as a matter of insulation where the skin may lose as much heat as it wished but the body beneath would always be unaffected. By face, Baldor is an aged dwarf, weathered by wind and storm to have deep grooves in his blue skin, and like all dwarves his beard is thick and hangs from nose to belt. Blue, blue, and blue are all you need to know of him and his kin, as I still find them impossible to differentiate.

We three cleared the last slope to the flats and penetrated the white wall that the wind had erected, now plastered in ice and snow, and were to continue over the plain to Ulduar's mountain, which we would climb to the top of the bridge. We made it so far as the rocky cliff when deep vrykul voices could be heard over wind and through ear-covers.

First the words were in Vrykul, which sent us into a full stop, and then against our backs pressed the cruel address of, "To think that others may arrive swifter than us. They move quick, for being men."

Hyldnir. Any idea of diplomatic evasion was crushed by their raspy voices. We turned, and I saw four sentinels of feminine flesh addressing us, each with bows and crossbows loaded with spears as long as I am tall. They dress in leather and iron, finely mixing the two into uniforms that are as practical as they are fashionable. It is the little things you notice, such as the bared midriff between the leather-chain top and skirt, the tight bodysuit that reaches down only so far as thighs, while thick, plated boots covered them nearly to the knee.

The Hyldnir are almost exclusively frost vrykul, apart from the occasional protege that comes to train. Like frost dwarves, their skin has the same blue pigment and insulating quality to it, wearing ice and snow like ornaments while their lower-heated cores remained unaffected. Each of the four before us looked her part... Except one.

I checked because I always checked. Despite the dissuading of Amber, I looked for the huntress I had shared that time with in the damned frozen cave, whether it was she of the white stag or not. Each Hyldnir we met, I remembered her words of training with them, and I was always relieved to see her not among those we fought and killed. Still, I expected that we might cross again in the Storm Peaks so long as we both remained confined here.

There among the Hyldnir was one who did not find white powder to be an exotic makeup. Her legs were covered in leather to her boots, and her upper body found a frozen shell of a cuirass, beneath which stretched a shirt with long sleeves, tucking into her hunter's bracers. A hood hid her face and a veil her mouth, but my heart lurched at her sight and I suspected as much as I feared the time had finally come.

Baldor cursed in Dwarven and took his hammer in two hands. I, however, stepped forward, and my voice raised over the scarf and wind to say, "No blood need be shed this day, Hyldnir!"

The lead frost vrykul sneered, surrounded by her sisters like a bully on the streets. "Truly, perhaps if you bow and scrape now, we will grant one of you the blessing of the mines."

Amber behind me let her scarf drop, revealing her softer features to the vrykuls, and her feminine voice acknowledged, "We will do no such thing, Hyldnir."

The revelation had little impact on them, however. She looked as though eating a sour grape, and drawled, "So there is a voice of reason among you after all. This explains your exceptional haste."

Still their weapons did not lower, while Amber stepped up beside me. I noticed she had Buck peeking through her cloak, a reminder to the Hyldnir should this small push become shove.

To Amber, I said, "We hunt the same prize."

She could only scowl, knowing my implications true. Unless we desisted from the titan relic, a skirmish was inevitable. With that single sentence, I told her that we would attack and kill these Hyldnir. Now, we wordlessly sought for the moment to strike, preferably without them unloading their bows first.

I did not forget the forth huntress, however. I had a hard knot in my stomach, ready for the inevitable violence to come, but I couldn't take the chance, not without knowing. My hands came to my hood and removed it, then lowered my scarf. I let my face be shown to them. Though I met each in her eye, the last was given a special emphasis which she did not return.

"Well you won't go back," I told them, shouting just to be heard. "And neither will we. I propose a challenge then. My puny man skills against those of the glorious Hyldnir, one on one. Winner takes the relic. Losers burn with defeat."

The left most Hyldnir had a sweeter voice, but it too was full of scorn: "Are you in a position to challenge, dog? I could skewer you before you get your sword up!"

"Try it," Amber returned, raising her musket, "and you'll find your brains splattered with the snow."

"We still win, little thing," the center-most hissed.

I raised my chin and my chest, reiterating, "One on one! Unless a woman's honor is less than a man's?"

"Men have no honor, childling," they scoffed, but again the center-most took the lead, saying to her sisters, "But let us humor the dog. Lærlingur, it is time to prove yourself. Take this man-thing's head."

The right most, she in full cover, stepped forward, not lowering her crossbow. The hand not holding the trigger came up, dragging back her hood, then down her veil. Dark hair unfurled into the wild winds, blowing with but one braid mixed inside. On both cheeks were black tattoos, coiled in patterns unknown, but when those light eyes touched upon mine, I saw the mutual recognition between us.

It was the huntress, as I feared. I lifted my chin to her, knowing that any friendliness we may have built before was crumbling now under the pressure of the Hyldnir. My gloved hand touched the clasp of my cloak, letting the winds whip it wide open, and I settled a grip over my new sword. I growled, "What say you now, Amber? Is she not familiar?"

There was no response from her as I made forward, or if there was it was lost to the wind.

To an observer, the confrontation moved at this speed, with suddenness and boldness. To me though, there was a storm inside that matched the one around us. My perception of time was different. As I said before, the land changed me, changed us, and the advancement from meeting to preparation to kill was already a swift thing. But my suspicions of that huntress brought anxiety with it, separate from the fear of fighting, and the revelation may have been a shock but to hesitate was to die.

My heart thundered between each crunching step in the snow. I did not know if I should try to kill her or to talk, but I was very aware of the Hyldnir around her, and I knew that this vrykul, who came so far for them, would not be abated by a return of a familiar face. It wasn't in their character to forget duty or honor. I made it easier for her by moving in aggression, dispelling any attempt to devise another solution.

I don't know what she thought then, as she trained her crossbow upon my heart. In better light, her eyes would be unforgiving silver, hardened and ready to act against me. Maybe she thought of wounding me, perhaps even catching me for her own personal slave – in benevolence, to spare me the other fate. I don't know what she thought of my skill, if she expected me to be worthy, or if, to her, I had fallen behind her Hyldnir training.

I had felled vrykul before. I knew the exact distance needed for a rolling strike that would cripple her leg. Once I reached it, she still had yet to fire, so I acted first by diving into the snow and out of the bolt's path. So it appeared, and so she repositioned and fired smoothly into my path. With the only art I knew, what appeared to be a dedicated roll found a sudden halt and change of direction less than a second into the motion. It was a twist on my knees, dragging up snow with my pointed toe as I turned, and then I kicked back to a stand and performed a drawing-strike.

She met it with her crossbow, not with brutish strength but careful deflection. It left her able to also intercept the swift turn I took my sword, one motion only the start of the next, which she now caught on the cross-guard of the wood and held me in place with. For only a moment was there a pause. She would try to overpower me. That was no secret. The exact nature of her move would change how I disengaged for a strike, and I readied myself to change the firm lock into a feather-light touch to break free.

Fights are won and lost in one's response to a parry. They are a warrior's bane. Take the wrong step and countless things could go wrong, whether losing your blade, losing your footing, or losing a position to block the next attack. Typically, these possibilities also belonged to an opponent, but not when they were multiple times your mass.

I got lucky. I pulled just the way she exploited, recovered my sword, and stepped out of immediate range. I let her drop her bow and draw her long knife, stepping to my right.

I remember the jeering. The Hyldnir would allow little confidence to build in me, and their words could become... quite creative on how to dismember a man. And my actual companions were deadly quiet, trusting me to hold my own. I gave little attention to either, but I remember briefly the world outside the fight.

Again, I do not know fighting by each movement and action, and certainly not so long after. In this, I remember we started with a quick parry, and I know I had successfully escaped it. I also remember when we engaged again, it was to my advantage. This woman, this huntress, was a beautiful combatant. Every motion was controlled strength, grace, and precise exploitation of any perceived weakness. She had been trained in seizing advantage.

But I was a pseudo-sword-dancer, my strength in my own fluidity. I would not be put down like a dog in the snow, not when lives depended on me, and not when it would give Hyldnir the satisfaction. My awareness in fighting had improved since those days in the south, and I recall _feeling_ like I was a step ahead of her in every movement. She swung, and I acted on what position it left her in – her responding moves were limited, and my bubble of protection was where she could not strike next.

I won't pretend this was a scene of total domination in the fight. My frantic mind moved me to places her knife couldn't touch, only to be kicked aside. I got into a position to take her footing from her, only to find a knee meet me where I expected an elbow. I took my beatings. Then I buried my sword in her gut.

I remember the sharp _crack!_ more than the rest. A layer of ice coated and froze her leather armor. Piercing it was like breaking an iron shell, and then my sword moved through the easy resistance unique only to vrykul guts. I whipped my sword back out and stepped back, letting the fact of her injury catch up to he mind.

My own thoughts screamed at the wrongness of it, yet I was driven by the battle, by the need to win. I told myself "No," yet when I heard the pained exhale, a second after her wound, I knew her to also lock up at the burst of pain. That was when my body acted, against my mind, and in two swipes along her thighs I took her to her knees before me.

I stared into the face of a giantess then, watched her hot breath make plumes of white fog before her. My left hand grasped my blade and brought its edge to her throat, stomping her knife out of her hand, then pushing with both hands my blade against her neck. In my victory, my mind won for a moment, filling me with horror for the act, and in our proximity I told her as soft as I could manage, "I'm sorry."

One tug would have ended her. It would have been a gruesome death, but it would be sure. Vrykuls don't die from a slit throat like humans. Their blood is thicker, comes slower. When it happens, there is time to watch their throats and lungs fill with blood. You'll hear them gag and gasp past it, spit it out through mouth and cut. Like elephants, they live absurdly long in that state. You can thrust your sword between their ribs, right into their heart, and they will wheeze and groan but keep breathing. You can hack and hack and hack at their guts, eviscerating them and spilling innards everywhere, and they just don't die.

Vrykuls lack the majesty of a dying elephant, but the revulsion is just as strong. Your blood has time to go from hot to normal, and you must re-steel yourself to try to hasten their end with an executioner's heart. There are few things so awful as this. They will succumb to lethal wounds, but Light, it is not something you forget.

In this fight, my blade edge guided her to the ground, utterly defeated, and I rose to a stand once more, with dark vrykul blood already freezing to my sword. I knew the humiliation she would feel at my victory, again at its witness by her companions, and I knew she might even be banished from the Hyldnir because of it.

I stood to face the now silent Hyldnir, and I noticed loathing silver eyes staring at me from the prone woman. There was someone who saved my life, someone who's life I had saved. And she stared at me with eyes of fury and hate. Betrayal too, if you can imagine it. I could. I could see that woman in the cave, who once laughed at my jokes, full of her own ambitions, now watching her hopes spill out like the blood from her stomach and it all laid at the feet of this one human that appeared at the weirdest of times.

There are things I might have done to recover the situation. I realize that now, long after, but I was so torn by the episode, my heart racing and stomach sick. I couldn't think of a thing then. I think the most sparing thing I could have done was similarly challenge the Hyldnir, let them taste my blade and skill, so they would not think less of the huntress for her defeat. But that would mean continuing to fight, and so it didn't even occur to me.

Instead, I held my bleeding sword out, and I said the only thing that came to my mind: "Wyrd gives and she takes."

I honestly don't know why that phrase came to me, but it held great significance, more than I knew when I said it. I believe I meant it to mean that Fate, which we thought had brought us to together before, was now meaning to take us apart. She gave us company, and now she took it away. A naïve, simplistic thought. I wonder how she read into it, as she lay where I left her.

But the Hyldnir, they took my victory without grace. Snide and jeering, they were about to attempt further aggressions, but it was Amber who stepped forward, as I walked back towards Baldor and the cliff wall. My trapper, she who had been there since the beginning, lifted her musket with a glowering look, stepping past me and saying, "Is this the face of the Hyldnir, to strike at the back of the victor? You have not the honor to stand by our agreement? Swine! Hags! Pig-lickers! One more step and I'll blow your face off!"

"Let's go, Amber. We're done here," I called back. The less interaction we had, the less chance we had to slight their pride – which _would_ incite them to fight. But my words extended farther than this one meeting. I didn't look back because I couldn't face those eyes any longer. I would not see the huntress I had felled here, the huntress I still desired the name of. I felt guilt for winning, the most regretful I'd been since the Peaks had changed me, and I refused to look back. When I said I was done, I meant with the Peaks. I had done enough damage here already.

But even as the Hyldnir refrained and Amber turned away, there was a voice against my back. Such a voice I would always recognize, filled with vrykul deepness and steely fury, which refused to allow me to further avoid my actions here. It was _she_ that said to me, "Ymiragard. Remember that name."

Despite all of my resolve, I turned fully around, and I saw those eyes once more, those eyes that could so easily hold me stupid. The Hyldnir were nothing more than backdrop once I met that stare. There was a pause before I told her, "I won't ever forget."

I broke the look first, rejoining Baldor and Amber, and we left to finish what would be our last quest in Storm Peaks. However, there is no adventure in it, and no story to tell, so that brings us to...

An End, but not the end.

Next takes place in the south once more, deep into the vrykul lands that are the Howling Fjords. The time has passed to travel that distance, fighting the persistent southwind all the while, and to say goodbye to Amber and Baldor both. It was not a final thing, but my trapper and I still had fortunes to float upon, and after the savagery of the Peaks – and the humiliation of Ymira at my hands – I needed time to sort myself out.

Was it a weird day? I don't remember the specifics, but I would think so. They always are. It should go without saying that the wind blew heavy banks of fog from the ocean, covering the fjords in impenetrable grey, a visual bleakness that only matched my mood. I knew why I had come to this place specifically. A fleeting hope accompanied my disturbed thoughts.

There was a desire to visit Dead Man's Leg, despite earlier misgivings, but I was glad when it proved unnecessary. In the forests atop the fjords, I encountered a pregnant she-worg. There was with her a pack, which I assumed would attack for my proximity, but they together only departed at my passing. That should have been my warning, but I was not in hunt of peculiarities.

Foggy woods. That is a rare memory for me. There are scenes of it worth mention, most impacting of which is when I came for a drink at a spring I found. It is a phantasmal sight, watching the white vapors twist and touch upon the glossy surface. In fog, silence feels more powerful than it is, and even in that forest, which must have been alive with insects and critters, I only remember the quiet of the grave. Nothing so uneasy as an unearthed grave. Merely peaceful, solitary, back when fog could evoke such emotions.

I found my drink, took the precautions of boiling the water, and timed it enough to still enjoy its taste. I had my own drinks in my pack, but such was my last choice, choosing this as a journey of the land. I planned to live off nature, as Amber had taught me.

The first arrow missed by only a foot. There was a twang and hiss, which I recognized swiftly but without any visibility to dodge. It hit the mud bank with a heavy impact, and I saw its makeup as a vrykul arrow. My sword was in my hands and my body in retreat to the nearest tree before the felted end stopped quivering.

The next nearly found its mark in my flesh, but I could hear its direction, and I managed to slide behind the tree, hearing the sharpness of the arrow tearing through hard bark. After my time in the north, fear was not a quick response to attacks like these. Only anxiety, frustration, sometimes rage. Fighting was fighting. She seemed to notice that, this huntress.

It was a woman's voice that passed through the woods like the wind. "I see you are not so easily spooked. I admired that confidence in you."

I heard splashes, steps through the spring, and I peered past the tree to see the approach of a familiar huntress. There was a haughtiness to her smile as she stared down her fully drawn bow at my place of cover. She said, "I was thinking I'd never see you again, Fellion."

The hope had been small, but it found its revelation. Still, my hand never left my sword, and I returned her greeting. "Ingrid, mischievous as ever. I was looking for you."

Splinters of bark sprayed against my face as the arrow glanced by, only barely dodging, but when I looked again, the bow was lowered, and I saw her pull down her hood. Curls of blond, light eyes in a dark ring, and amused lips. That is what I first noticed when I found her again.

The wood bow went over her shoulder. That reminds me- reminded me, I should say, the change to her clothes, which were now much stylized after Ymira's. The long sleeves she wore before were a fitted jerkin, or a leather breastplate depending on your standards of armor classification. That left her arms exposed to the shoulder but for the bracers she wore.

With her weapon away, I made a careful step around the tree, revealing myself, as she said, "Well, I found you. It's been at least a year, hasn't it? You've changed."

I didn't address the comment, but neither did I disagree. I only said, "I was looking for a friendly face. Now I'm starting to reconsider my choice in it."

"I see you've become no wiser, cursed-man, to trample through Winterskorn lands in hopes to find me. What has happened to your companion, that Ophelia?"

It was the first reminder of the Sleeper's Fiat almost since it happened. The supposed curse, I mean. I had honestly forgotten at that point. But I told Ingrid the short of my position, and I invited her to sit and talk with me once more. At that time, I didn't really know why I wanted to meet the other sister again. I told her as much. Perhaps it really was a base desire, to meet again the one I once bantered with in the pirate town. The friendly part was true; I wanted a familiar face, but not the typical I was always around. But then, I also wondered if I sought her _because_ she was the sister.

Regardless, I left it for her to figure out my reasons. We sat, and we talked. For a time, it was like we truly were back in that Bilge's Barrels tavern, bickering and laughing and ultimately forgetting. I can't say I came all the way south over that meeting on the steppes of Ulduar. A great deal of time had passed since then, enough to mute the significance of any mistake, but there was a relief to just sit back and enjoy an evening with a woman, without fear or combat, without the hardness required of Storm Peaks.

Some time into our talk, our spirits sobered once we came to the southwind. In the heart of this forest, it was only a mild presence, same to it in the far north, but it had an unforgettable bearing across the south lands here, fresh off the water top.

I remember she was looking up, where the fog swirled over the tops of dancing trees, when she said, "I'm worried though, you know. This wind began that night we left the Maw. The night the Sleeper's Fiat was broken, and it hasn't ceased even once in the last year. The mists come heavy with it."

And I asked her, "You think the curse part is true?"

"That, or something more sinister is abound. I can't help but wonder what all that power was fixed on before you took it up. What if it was the lock to a prison? The key to doors like Ulduar?"

The possibility had me shudder, and my skin prickled against the cold. I tried to shake back considerations of things like The Prisoner, saying, "I'd think not. _They_ were long sealed when he was king, and legend says he used the rune as regular augmentation."

"The world is a place of many mysteries, and many dark things," was her cryptic reply, but she turned finally from the mists. There was a weight to her gaze, and I found myself comparing her to her sister. It was a subconscious thing, no different than when I was caught comparing Ymira to Ingrid when we were bound in the frozen cave.

I said, "I can only hope not." I noticed my goosebumps weren't retreating, and that the grey world was a shade darker. "Night's falling," I mentioned. "Will you rest here?"

Ingrid found a sly smile for my suggestion. "Are you getting fresh with me, Fellion?"

We were back into our banter. Waving a hand towards the tree with chewed notches in its hide, I said, "We feast, we drink, and you shot arrows at me. I believe we're fresh enough already."

A pleasant laugh touched my ears from her, with a wide smile. "You learn our customs well, little human. You haven't been seeing other kinswomen behind my back, have you?"

"Only one or two," I teased, then shook my head, asking "That's not an actual custom, is it?"

A light eyebrow raised my way. "Bonding through combat? Oh, you deprived little ones. How can you call someone your friend if you don't know how their entrails feel in your hands?"

Only a tiny reminder of spilling Ymiragard's guts touched my mind. Not enough to prevent me from saying, "There are other ways to know a woman from the inside." It sent Ingrid into a gleeful laughter.

"You humans are all the same. Not even a bit of subtlety. When will you learn that the heat of true battle is better than sex?"

I shrugged in faux-innocence. "Perhaps when I have a basis of reference."

Another laugh. "Your kind are at least inventive in their invitations. So this is why you have come for me."

I tried to appear affronted. "I am hardly so base. I traveled all the distance from Storm Peaks to here only to see the smile of Ingrid of the Winterskorn, lest I forget the wit and vision of she who once impressed me so."

"Your tongue drips with more honey than the hive-fields of Grizzly Hills," she mocked, "and shines more silver than the full moon of winter's heart. You should be embarrassed – I certainly am."

Sure enough, she did have rosy cheeks to pair with her smile. Vrykul complements are nothing like ours. "Ah, should I say instead that I have been searching for a woman worthy of smiling at me, then omit saying that I found her?"

A short bark of a laugh, and she was positively scarlet now. "There is a mouth to slay vrykuls. I must warn my kinswomen."

I shrugged. "Slaying is not all it can do."

It was perhaps a step too far with that last one, but Ingrid made a delighted sound of laughter. "My, oh my, Fellion. Lewd, scandalous, lascivious, and perverse. I see why your language has so many of these words: for men like you. It is fortunate that we vrykuls put more stock in actions than words, but I worry for the women of your race."

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Action, huh?" There was pleasure in riling up this vrykul woman, though I meant it all in fun. Ingrid was not one to be embarrassed easily, and she usually held her own quite well in our exchanges.

But it was a smoldering gaze which returned my latest barb, and her grin was haughty beneath crimson cheeks. "You should learn to hold your tongue, little Fellion. You would be crushed if we were to try."

I finally decided to back off, leaving it with the quip, "But what a way to go, eh?"

"By Bor's beard, you are relentless," she chuckled. "I am not sure if I enjoy this change in you or not. I always considered myself well adapted to human ways; I cannot imagine a kinswoman's response to that, let alone my systir."

My memories stirred at her words, not all of them bad. It was with something like a fond smile that I said, "She'd tell me that I talk too much, then send me towards you."

Familiar blue eyes blinked, then Ingrid laughed heartily. "Ja, she would! Perhaps you know 'Mira better than I!" When she mellowed, it was to say, "You say you came from Storm Peaks, no? My systir is up there, and should be for a few more years. Did you by chance meet her in crossing?"

With Ingrid, there was not even hesitation from me. I told her my time in Storm Peaks, my tedious adventures. I told her about meeting her sister, both a... very brief recount of the beryl scale disaster and then a detailed one of meeting her at the steppes of Ulduar. I said the truth of it from my end, that I didn't mean to disgrace her before her peers or mentors, but neither could I think of a better way to address that standoff of bows and Amber's gun.

When I finished, I remember she jabbed my head with her finger. I'd call it a poke, if it didn't send me flat on my back with a splitting headache and no wind left in my chest. She scoffed at me, saying, "Look at you, all somber and broody. No end to your trouble, cursed-man, yet you earned 'Mira's name. Did you come all the way here because of this?"

She made it sound more dramatic than I felt about it. I tried to dissuade the idea. "I came because I was done with Storm Peaks. I was wandering, and this was as good of a place as any."

"Your heart bleeds like a woman," she accused with a drawn sigh. "And to think I believed you to have wit."

Well, I wasn't one to take heat sitting down. I said, "What makes you think my heart doesn't bleed for you?"

Her grin said she could appreciate the reply, but her words were: "Well, I don't want it. There is no end to your bad luck, and I want no part in it."

I did not want to make that night with Ingrid about Ymiragard, but while the topic was still open, I asked what she thought her sister's response would be to my actions, what she might do if we met again.

"'Mira is clever enough to be above Hyldnir pettiness," Ingrid told me, "but she has her pride. She would respect you for defeating her – that is clear by telling you her name – yet if you actually _apologized_ after, all that respect is gone. Disgusting human weakness. "I'm sorry that I'm better than you," "I'm sorry you weren't ready for me," "I'm sorry I am so great and have no bloody pride." Fah!"

I spread my hands, for once with no quip to shoot back. "I'm sorry for always interfering with her life, and I'm sorry for costing her a chance to train with the Hyldnir. That is what I meant by it."

Ingrid only shook her big hand my way. "No one is clever enough to follow strange human logic, not even my wonderful systir. If you see 'Mira again, if she let's you see her, expect her to be hunting your head. That, or she has abandoned her pride and decided to braid her hair for you, which my systir would never do."

Now that caught my attention, and old questions came forth. I had to ask her: "What does hair braiding mean among vrykul?"

I remember that searching look on her face, like I was trying to make another joke. She finally said, "The same as it means amongst humans, no? I see the slags do it in your tavern."

I shook my head. "It's just a... cosmetic thing among us. It doesn't have a specific meaning."

"Ja, cosmetic. She wants to be pretty. The Hyldnir all braid their hair because they see a competition as to who is prettiest. Normal women want to impress a man. If I braid my hair for you, I want to be pretty to you. How is this confusing?"

"So if I were to braid a woman's hair, it would mean I want to "pretty-her-up," so to speak. I'm showing interest."

Still that look from her as she said, "Why would a man even braid a woman's hair? She does not hand him a boulder and say "lift until you are strong and sweaty," but... eh, I guess? You'd have to be real familiar for me, or anyone, to let you though. If you were to come over here and try, I'd certainly punch you." She showed her fist in example, then asked, "But why these questions, Fellion? It is like we are discussing the specifics on how to skin a hare."

Did I tell her the truth of that exchange in the frozen cave? Dare I? I dared not, citing a mere curiosity from something "I had seen before," and she told me how much she didn't believe me, but we left the topic alone. We two continued talking anyways, and to be honest I didn't give any real consideration to the – admittedly simplistic – revelation over the braids until we retired to sleep. And I say "retired to" because I'm confident that I found very little sleep that night myself.

An End to another moment, but still not the end.

The next was also to be a weird day, but it was not grey. No, it was the pink of morning light. It was the burning gold and bloody crimson of an important sunrise, and I beheld it from the tops of the southern fjords. There was color, for at least a time, just as there was solitude, for at least a time. I was stationed atop the very edge, a sentinel alone among the green plains, with my body leaned into the powerful presence of the southwind.

Before my parting with Ingrid, around two weeks prior to this moment, she told me of trouble in the south. It was said in ways to pique my curiosity, even without the comfort of my trapper and the durable rock that was Baldor. It was dawning that I may never find solace from the hardness that clung to my being like rancid smoke after Storm Peaks, but with it was also an enduring confidence in the dangerous corners of the world. I knew I could return to Dead Man's Leg in guise of that cold Tanari assassin once more, only this time no longer pretend.

My mind was far from either of those thoughts then. Atop that high cliff, I beheld a scene to take a man's breath away, as before me stretched endless fields and rolling hills of cottony white. The procession began only a dozen feet beneath my feet, which showed more like wispy fog and ate away the presence of the cliff face in its descent, but faced forward, it was the appearance of an innocent blanket, with its fibrous spindles touched with gold and red along its edges.

It was beautiful, and it was frightening. My vantage point was a place called Shield Hill, which has garnered more attention in the last few years of our time than it was given then. But I had pursued its rumors, been told the truth of its history in the war against the Lich King, and I knew that here a curse had been told and filled, heralding the reawakening of the Kvaldir.

As I said in the night of the storm crow, the Kvaldir were regarded as only a minor annoyance. The seafolk received their brunt and called them the world's most dreadful scourge, but when the invaders came to land, the Alliance and Horde rolled over them in the hungry pursuit of the Lich King. This was no fluke, as the Kvaldir were really that weak. They could pillage, and they were vrykul-strong, but their numbers were laughably few against our mighty armies.

The naga, who ruled the seas, hunted them to extinction beneath the waves. They too had heard the rumors of the Kvaldir that would dominate the world, and they entered that fray with stalwart hearts and a readiness to perish to the last man in fighting. Instead, they proved victorious in a fortnight, and they discarded the prophesies same as us.

According to Ingrid and other southerners, things moved in the mist once more. There was no report of raids or sightings of the mist-men, but Dead Man's Leg had been nearly desolate but for the permanent inhabitants. No new ships were porting, they said. Kvaldir were only a small consideration when they explained that the waters weren't safe, but they agreed that the sea vrykuls had been defeated years ago.

I went to check out the rumors, which also said that the southwind was bringing persistent mist. I reached the cliff edge that morning, and that is what I saw: an ocean replaced by a sea of mist, with no way to prove or disprove that things moved among it. Even had the waters been empty, it was easy to see why no ships came to port at Kamagua. So heavy was the fog that they'd crash against the rocks if they tried to reach land. There was no way to navigate this endless mist.

There was another reason why I chose Shield Hill as my place of vantage. Directly beneath my feet, a few hundred feet down, was the Maw. Its entirety was the underhalls of Shield Hill. A tomb beneath the burial ground. It was no coincidence, and what little I could pull from the vrykul suggested that they were of equitable age. Both had been established in the time that all vrykul were united under one king.

I had no conclusions, but I had my suspicions. If the Kvaldir were said to have reawakened because of the tampering of the burial ground above, what might the consequences be for desecrating the tomb below? A curse upon the one who breaks the Sleeper's Fiat. Well I broke that right and proper, so what might come from it? The southwind? The storm crow?

That is what I came to find out.

I made the trip down to sea level once more. I forget my exact path now, and how long, but it was nothing so daring as zip-lining and jumping into the icy water. I suppose this is worth detail, however, because it will happen many times more.

It is called the Descent Into The Mist. Capitalize each word. That is not the name of the tale but the action. It is my hope that the Fae have not heard of it in their forgotten corners of the world, but if you have, you know the phrase is a fancy metonym for suicide. I am one of the few who have performed it and lived.

In this case, I was not consumed in grey, as my tales tend to go, but in red and pink. The early light persisted into the mist and made it all aglow. That was the color of my first Descent.

At the bottom, I stood on the edge of the lapping waters. There were no waves, but the wind pushed it forward and forward, cutting into the sand bank and creating an unforgettable steep cliff of sand only a few feet into the water. I remember seeing it just drop into blackness.

My attention was vigilant on the horizon, as far as I could see along the water. Needless to say, it was not very far. Twenty yards, typically, with the occasional opening of fifty yards as the fog banks moved.

I saw nothing. The waters were calm and empty, for every bit that revealed itself to me. I moved down the shore, as far as there was a shore, but I saw no hints of anything out there. I was alone, not with human, vrykul, or tuskarr to meet in passing. That is not rare in that part of the world, but it gives some inkling of the complete silence that covered the area. Only the trickle of moving water and the crunch of sand beneath my boots ever touched my ears.

On my way back, it took me far longer to notice than I'd like to admit. I stopped walking, leaving only the sound of water, but it became certain then. There was a machine-like repetition to the sound. The waves continued, but in the distance, there was a sound that came at evenly spaced intervals. Two seconds, that was the time between each. Only moving water, but I at least began to recognize it as _rowing._

I looked and looked and looked, but the fog was too thick. Still, once I realized it, it was undeniable. There was a boat out there rowing. I thought of the Kvaldir, of course. That's why I didn't consider hailing them. Instead, I did the next most idiotic thing: I threw a stone.

It didn't hit anything, but the single splash of its landing interrupted the subtlety of the tableau. The rhythmic sound of the rowing halted.

Oh, I knew fear then. I had my confirmation that something was out there, and though I didn't panic, I wasn't keen on it finding me alone on the shore. I continued listening, hearing nothing but water. Then, a grunt. And a guttural acknowledgment. My hand was on my sword hilt before I could think.

I knew by the deepness, the presence: those were vrykul sounds. Vrykul on the water. Kvaldir or not, it was not safe for me there. I retreated back, off the sand and back to the grass of the knoll. The voices came again, this time with words in their language, and I heard returning shouts from places that could only be other ships.

And, well... I'm going to end this short tale here. I feel like I am making it more dramatic than it was. It serves as good practice for describing the next Descent, but there was no great confrontation or battle here. These things I said are true, but once I realized the truth, once I had that confirmation that things moved in the mists, I bit my tongue and I fled. I refused to be caught flat-footed there, without my tested companions, and in truth I was afraid.

I was afraid of the mist and what could be in it. It is a natural thing, to be afraid of the unknown, but it is a worse thing when the unknown lets you know it is there, that it is stirring, that it is coming. When the unknown breaths down your neck. I tasted a real fear then, one of the first of what would become many to receive that feeling.

And that... is the point of this tale. You know what I heard then, so you know that this is my first encounter with it, but I give this detail because that one moment makes real exactly what was to come. Even a man like me feels fear, Lady Sylvian, but you aren't the one who can arouse it in me...

Another End, but once more, and for the final time, still not the end.

Where things once began, they must begin once more. In the depths of Grizzly Hills, it was something of a marvelous day, because there was a break in the monotony of the grey, and there was once more a shining silver and a chase through moonlight. And it was undoubtedly a weird day... because I was being hunted.

It was an odd mesh of the first tale I told unto you, but I can say that this time it was not a furious bear snapping at my heels. It was neither Amber who was at the end of my flight. Ah, but Fellion the Fleet was not such an odd title, and whether I was fleeing or leading, I still do not know.

I had behind me a huntress. My huntress – she that hunts me. And like the tales of folklore, she chased me across land and across the sky, and we made the moon our territory, with the stars our witness. If I knew poetry, I would say it upon this moment, upon that night, in the flight of the bird and the hunt of the red fox.

Ah, but the words fall from my tongue and I know they fall short, that my words always fall short before her, but I must try. I must paint as a painter paints and must say as a sayer says. How do I approach this moment, this fleeting scene, when the only way it may continue is if I flee its presence? But I must lead it, as I led it then, in an image of fantasy and the tallness of tales.

"_You are having fun with this, aren't you, Fellion?" Lady Sylvian drawled, not without amusement._

You will tell these tales one day, Lady Fae, but try as you might, no listener will ever know my excitement in this moment as you do. You will tell them and they will listen, but even your sweet tongue will not be able to paint the image, the one you see right now, that will dance behind your shining silver eyes then. You will say, "And Fellion knew joy," but the words will never capture what you saw of me.

So take pride in that I give you this knowledge, this precious moment that captures the truth of my being. Realize that you and you alone will know just the image and joy of Fellion as he recounts the moment that he meets _her._ When Fellion first knew the woman that is mother to Mally, when Fellion found love and his life.

Lady Sylvian, my Fae and not my friend, I am in _love_ with this woman. I confess it to thee and the moon above. I love her so much that I confessed it to the world, and the world, in scorn, tried to take her from me. And I burned the world to see her come back. That is this woman, and this is the moment that I meet her. Everything I have said is to lead to this moment.

"_Well, thrice-damn you for keeping her identity in the dark until now."_

Have I? Have I truly? Because I found there to never have been a doubt to her identity, to this romance. I'm sure that if you try, you can picture her face right now, her pretty blue eyes and her wonderful bronze skin. If you _try,_ you will see the face of the woman I love, and you will realize that it was she all along. This romance is many things, none of it _conventional,_ but it is many times _proper._

Ah, the judicious scrutiny you give me, but I encourage you once more to stop and really think, Lady Fae. Turn your strange, or maybe normal, mind onto the matter and really ask yourself... Well, don't ask _who it is_ but rather _who you want it to be._ Then, I think, you will realize who hunted me that day.

There is a clue on your face. I can see it in your eyes now. Who you want it to be. Who _I_ wanted it to be. The cast of my past was small, but there were faces and names to each.

"_I believe I know where you are headed with this, but will you leave this occasion a mere short? Will you not give _her_ a proper tale?"_

Haven't I given her once already, through all that I've said to you? Every tale has been hers, but if you insist, I will end this last short and give it length.

"_Is length not what she deserves?"_

She does, but it is not something she appreciates. Yet another unresolved dichotomy. My moments with her, compared to the years I've known her, are so few. So, so few. But I love her, I have come to love her, and such things are the least of my concerns.

But yes, the short ends with the image of a little bird, a little bird named Fell, who flew across the silver sky, and at his tail was hunting fox, a fox named... Well, that would be spoiling it, so I say instead, a hunting fox who chased him across the silver sky.

The End

XxX

The antsy Fae allowed not even a moment before saying, "No waiting this time, Fell. No tricks, no games. Say it quick and say it true."

Fellion unwound himself from his stiff position against the tree base, and he made a show of relaxing and stretching. "You don't hold that authority over me. I don't know how long these stories are taking since the moon doesn't seem to be moving tonight, but I'm sore and I will take a break as I please."

A sound that wasn't quite human touched his ears, causing Fellion to peer over at the Fae. Her impatience was written over her pretty face, by the sour set of her lips and the heat of her glare, but whimsical eyes were turning over the forest as if it might hold her attention long enough. He blinked at her visage; though she still had the shape of this voluptuous and feminine woman, he suddenly attributed that sound and her response to when baby Mally didn't get what she wanted. Lady Sylvian was acting like a child.

The thought sent him into a fit of laughter, inciting further ire from her. He dare not tell her what he saw, but he did begin to reevaluate her in his mind. He would not lower his guard around a Fae, but this one, she must have been young. Perhaps even in the two-digits still.

"Turn around, Fellion," the elf commanded then, her arms tightly folded into the opaque cloth of her shawl. It gave further shape to her bosom yet still an element of teenish attitude.

Fellion stood and offered her a flawless bow. "As you say, my Lady." Then he turned away, allowing her visual privacy.

There was sound then, of the forest and the wind. Then there was a spatter of water, and again, at even intervals. About a second apart, he timed. Then his head tilted, listening intently. The sound was that of lightly slapping one's palm against the water top, but it moved, it approached. If he didn't know better, he'd guess that she was _walking_ across the water.

Tempted as he was to turn, he abided by her request and waited through the sound, even when the spattering stopped and there was only the muted footfall against the bank. The Fae will always be fae, he concluded, and continued stretching out. For a moment, he was tempted to fall into the incomplete routine of his sword art, a set of movements called a _saeta_ by the elves, that encouraged the motions commonly used by sword-dancing, but he refrained.

It would limber him up, but the effort was beyond the energy he wanted to expend after his bath. Neither did he wish to allow one like Lady Sylvian to witness him in practice.

"Finished. You may look back," came her voice, not far from behind him, and Fellion turned back.

Lady Sylvian's appearance had changed. Fellion stared, giving study to her sudden attire. Certainly, she fulfilled her position as "lady" with it, in a fantastic dress never before seen in any courtroom of the human kingdoms. Silk and moonlight dressed the highborne, no longer indecent, flowing anywhere from her nape to flower-bell stylized sleeves at the shoulders down to a ruffled and flowing tail to end at her shins.

He made a sound of acknowledgment, not praise, and shook off the tingling his spine scrawled with knowing that magic had been worked so close to him. That dress had not been lying about the forest floor. He also noticed a folded cloth tucked beneath her left arm, which was also not the shawl she had worn only moments ago.

Up close, the elf was frightfully beautiful. She did not appeal to him as she might have years ago, but he did recognize this fact. Presently, her lips had a little pout to shape them, and she gestured to the folded cloth and the grassy floor, inviting, "Will you sit with me?"

He thought of the story he was to tell, the material it would involve. He told her honestly, "It would be best if I did not, otherwise I'd never get the words past my lips."

The way she peered at him in response reminded him of the owl that was also present, and he stopped his smile halfway. Not quick enough, as her pout came in full, and with a step she reached out and took his hand in hers. Subconsciously, he expected it to be ice cold when the dark-skinned fingers seized his. It was night, and she had spent much of her time in the cold pool, allowing herself to air dry, yet her fingers burned with the warmth of a hearth, soft yet firm, and she drew him her way.

"Come," she invited again, those silver eyes too wide and too innocent-seeming, and she laid before them an elfsilk blanket with one hand. It fell perfectly in one try, and still with her hand around his, she pulled him to its pleasant fabric. Old reflexes flared, mainly the fears of his dirty feet and fine cloth, but Lady Sylvian insisted, and then he was seated upon its face and her kneeled across from him, smiling.

"So I ask you once and kindly," she said then, "will you continue your tale now?"

He did not need to wait to hear her ask twice and thrice. He had his break, and he was no less anxious. "I shall."

He took a breath, considering himself and his position. They were quite intimately close now, and he dirtying her blanket. Hardly a comfortable setting for this tale, but then he thought of _her,_ he thought of what was to come, and he knew that nothing of the present mattered to him now.

"So the beginning. The tale of the great red fox. As I'm sure you already know, this story begins in Northrend, far to the east where the forests are deep and trees are thick as mountains and about as high. I set out from Amberpine, on the word of a word that may have come from an unstable furbolg. A hunt for the great red fox, to claim a trophy of... well, a pestering little bird.

"Yes, it is there that this story begins. It was a weird day, and the moonlight made the world silver..."


	6. The Hunt of the Great Red Fox

_The Hunt of the Great Red Fox_

* * *

In fact, such was the silver that all color... hah, I love parallels, but I doubt I can keep it up any longer. Let me start again...

Night had fallen, and the white moon was high, fat and round like the prized cow, and from it came silvery light that illuminated the woods like the mid of day. I do not remember how long after the first Descent this was, but I had fallen stagnant in Grizzly Hills, living not unlike the trappers. It was easy work, honest work, and it filled my time as I was left considering the land both south and north.

This day was perhaps the weirdest of them all, but I don't care to recall why. But know that Fate left an obvious hand in every step, forcing me along a specific path I wouldn't otherwise be near, through a variety of conditions. By carrot and by stick, she led me. Well, that is not wholesomely true. I remember the weird. A great redwood, fallen upon a path I am oft to take, driving me north in diversion. A fresh den of bears, taken up where a day before had been a mellow and abandoned nook I was partial to sleeping in.

And there was a particular bird call in a direction I moved, which I knew the furbolgs to use in hunting, and though I could not decide if it was artificial or a disturbance in the night, I still moved farther off-path. A small spring had widened to a modest river off-season, and the sudden scampering of a wolfpack to leave my direction unhindered all built to this notion of a weird night, and I looked up to moon to ask just what Fate had in store for me this night.

It is safe to assume that all things I remember now, I also remembered back then – unless otherwise stated, of course. In particular, that blurb from Ingrid, where she corrected herself, "If you see 'Mira again, if she let's you see her," I knew she meant that Ymiragard may simply hide herself if I drew near. Any hunter or huntress, even vrykul ones, had that ability; it is a staple of their trade.

The conclusion of my unarguably guided path was up a slope, the crest of which had an uninterrupted view of the land in all directions. Anyone stationed atop it would see my approach, and anyone of skill had time to react to it, whether to hide or to lay a trap. There was one in wait acrown that hill, led concurrently as myself, and indeed this one saw my approach with much advance, again with much time to react, yet as I crested its final bank, near stumbling and confused by my state of direction, hoping to orient myself from its top, I was swift to find this other in a state of patient wait.

The other... The other is, was, well... Forgive me, this is no place to hesitate. The other was none other than a lone vrykul woman. Not remarkable in itself, but she was indisputably a huntress, cloaked and dressed in shadows while she fiddled with the mechanics of a vrykul crossbow. A huntress that had seen the staggered approach of a disgruntled human and was content to let him fall upon her. She, further more now call the Red Fox, wanted to meet me, a realization that had me pause at just the threshold of the hilltop.

As always, the forest was alive with sound, but it was also tainted by the metallic clicking of moving parts. I watched nimble vrykul fingers set the latch of a full draw, the sound of its sight locking in place, and the final click of a metal bolt finding its home in its waiting chamber... which probably isn't the proper name of a crossbow's trench, but Amber taught me gun things, not bow.

Despite the brightness of the silver night, the hood and shadows hid the huntress when I, as I am prone to, sought her identity. Had Ingrid pursued me in my solitude? Had Ymira finally come with a woman's vengeance? The Red Fox had a red cloak, which first garnered her name. Drakeskin, seamless, draped around her shoulders and obscuring her arms but for the bracered forearms visible in their work. It hung to her knees in a great swath of hide, which must have been taken from an unmistakably mighty beast. Knowing vrykul as I do, she would have slayed it herself.

Dragonflayer, that must be her clan. It was nearly textbook. Voldrune specifically, as the north-most Dragonflayer settlement. Since the war, they are the clan I am least familiar with. They had been the most warlike and eager, yet they received the brunt of the small one invasion. Their king, their capital, most of their settlements and warriors – all that had been taken from them, draining most of their fire. But did that spur notions of revenge? Did this huntress want to see fear in my eyes when she killed me?

Once her crossbow was loaded, the huntress held it still for a moment of silence, then raised it precisely upon my breast. I remember that pause the best, for there had been hope, but once it was leveled upon me, I was back into the mind of Storm Peaks, and my hand came to my hunting knife. No sword, for such was a tool of war and I but a man of the wilds for the moment.

Her chin lifted as her attention settled on me – not enough to catch my face, not enough for me to see her eyes, but there was mutual acknowledgment between us. I wasn't afraid. That is stark in my memory; it took more than a lone huntress to arouse my concern. I considered fighting her, I remember, and I also wondered if my tongue could get me out of this without violence.

There was no cue before she fired. Not tension, no flinch or intake of breath. There was the hesitation of a standoff, then the spear vanished from the crossbow and a rush of wind and shriek of sound passed me by. The huntress had missed, intentionally I presumed, but the message became clear to me: run.

I promptly listened, releasing my knife to turn and sprint down the hill. Don't get me wrong; I could have killed her, probably, but there was something to this night that unsettled me. Not her, this huntress, but the circumstances that led me to her. It was a weird night, and I had a history with those. So instead of prematurely cutting down this vrykul, I turned and ran, wondering and perhaps even hoping that this Red Fox would follow. I was not disappointed.

It was not a deadly chase. I think you gathered that already from my excitement before, but blades did not flash in the night and bolts did not brush my clothes with frantic dodging. I merely ran, and she followed. I won't lie and say I knew where I was going, that I had a plan to lose my tracker and hide my tracks. It was a flight of a little bird and the chase of a red fox.

The whole point might be hard to follow, because you must be within her head and mine simultaneously. She wanted me to run, so I did. I wanted her to follow, so she did. So was I chased or did I lead? I don't know. I don't think it matters either. Yet... actually, let me continue, and perhaps I can explain better.

See, we were a few minutes into it when I began to suspect at my huntress, this Red Fox. She was swift in the forest, more so than me, and I have no delusion that I remained ahead because of my efforts to squeeze through small, human-sized openings to delay her. No, she could have overcome me in a heartbeat. Yet she remained a pace behind me, never catching up but never lingering so far as to think I had lost her. She wanted me to run, I began to realize.

When I did, I looked back in my sprint, beholding she that pursued me. This was no wolf lapping at my heels, but a proper distance, twenty to fifty yards behind. I saw that her hood had fallen, carried back by the wind as was her large cloak, which now billowed with great gusts despite its natural stiffness. But more so I saw her determined face, with her long hair streaming behind. No more than a glance, at such distance, and then I was focused on my flight once more.

I claim I wished for the Red Fox to follow. So why? Why indeed. Here I was, running from someone that presumably didn't even mean to kill me. If I were to stop suddenly, would she load that crossbow once more, or would she desist entirely and leave me be? I considered what I knew so far from this engagement: she had seen me from the distance, she wanted me to come, to meet her, and then she chased me away with bolts. I could think of only one reason for this:

This huntress knew me, and she was toying with me like Ingrid on the prowl. I thought of the hand of Fate again, and my suspicions grew.

So I rounded a thick tree, scaled the short, rocky outcrop it leaned upon, and I arrest my flight atop it. My heart pounded steadily, my breaths in light pants, and while I hesitated there, I continued stomping my feet in place like a soldier-boy to sound as though I still fled.

It was only a brief moment before my huntress followed me around the wood giant. She saw the ledge I had climbed and tensed her body for a mighty leap that would take her clean atop it. I remember the instant she realized that I was right there too, waiting, and the way her pale eyes flew wide with surprise and her body faltered. One wide and powerful hand slapped against the rocky lip, catching her momentum, and then only her head was visible from above that edge I stood upon.

I saw the face of my pursuer, and she knew that I saw her, and then I turned and ran once more, dropping off the other side of the tree and running back down the path we had trodden. I believe it was curiosity that had me wish she followed, curiosity over this huntress on the hill and curiosity of the Red Fox that knew me. When I resumed the flight, my motivation had clearly changed to leading her.

See, I have a very romanticized notion of this night. Not all of it is baseless, however. Once I heard the Red Fox continue her pursuit, after realizing I had seen her face, I knew she would follow me anywhere. Had endurance permitted, I could have run from the heart of Grizzly Hills to the tips of the southern fjords, and she would be right behind me. I could have crossed the breadth of Northrend, slogging through rivers, snow, and o'er mountains high, and she would follow. I could have run to the moons, from Elune to the Blue Lady, and my huntress would follow.

It was a weird night, Lady Fae, but it was the best of them.

For an indeterminate length of time, I ran for the sake of running. I needed time to think after the revelation, and neither nature nor civilization ever bothered to interfere with that. All the while, there was the tramping of my feet and the quiet pursuit of a huntress. Once I found myself in familiar land, however, my lead became guided, and I knew to where I was running.

My fear that night was that it might end. Even now, that is my wildest fear. Did I flee or did I lead, such a question does not matter, but the truth was that the night only continued by lead of my flight. When I stopped running, the spell of it would break, the dream would end, and I would wake to the dull world again – a world that is grey and so lackluster to this silver night.

The little bird never completed its flight. That would imply that the bird got what it wanted, which is never the case. No, it is the Red Fox that gets what she wants, and the hunt ended at her whims. As is only right.

To be clear, and to amend any apparent contradictions, the fox only decided to catch the bird when it was clear that the bird itself intended to end the flight. And with the same fears as myself, that such an end would end it all, the fox pounced and caught the little bird.

So focused was I on my destination that I did not notice my huntresses' gain, not until a long arm caught my by the waist and hoisted me clean off the ground. A vrykul's momentum is a powerful thing, and she slid forward in something like a tackle with me seized in her grip, tumbling over a grassy meadow and kicking up leaves and dirt under the bright night.

I was surprised by the change, to say the least. I thought she actually meant to kill me then, that I had misread the situation, and there was fierce burst of frustration that led to a struggle against the Red Fox even as we still fell. The frustration was mostly directed at the inability to reach my goal, unreasonable as that may sound. It was a place special to me that I had been leading us, and even though I thought my life in danger, I had this baseless urge to continue leading us to that place. The mind is a funny thing sometimes.

So we tumbled, kicking and struggling, until I weaseled my way from under her arm and scrambled over grass and leaves to escape. I remember thinking my distance was enough when, with abrupt presence, her wide vrykul hand clamped down over my back and shoved me face-first into the ground. I lost my wind and for a moment did not struggle. It was enough for her to weed her fingers under my side and drag me back to her.

I was caught like a mouse, I knew. Dirty from the scuffle, breathing in little pants with a roaring heart, I was brought before my huntress, who held me not with her hand but with her eyes. Eyes of silver, bright like the moon, like a polished sword, which pierced through my feeble flesh and saw all that I was. Eyes framed by a strong, yet gentle and feminine, face of bronze skin. As my attention fell upon that face, not even my sprinting heart could resist stumbling its beat.

As for me, as I dangled like prey in a cat's mouth, as I was pinned like a butterfly on a child's study board... well, I was meek. But I was also bold, because I was and am too foolish to be otherwise. So I broke our silence with only a single word, a word breathed in a sheepish manner, addressing only... "Ymiragard."

XxX

"You're an ass."

Fellion laughed, noticing he wasn't alone in the gesture. To the otherwise delighted Fae, said, "I try. But do not act surprised. It has been no less than obvious since the moment I first saw her under the moonlight."

In an attempted gruff and masculine voice, Lady Sylvian hooted, "Ooh, when I, big strong Fellion, _first_ knew the woman that is Mally's mother. When I _first_ met her. I clever lying man."

"Oh, but there is no guile yet, Lady Fae. I don't recall labeling it my first meeting, but, as the saying goes, this is the night that I first _knew_ her, as a man knows a woman."

"Just get on with it, _dolstre,"_ said the peeved elf, but the puff of her cheeks was inconsistent with her slipping grin.

"As you say, my Lady. Ahem...

XxX

The Red Fox unveiled was indeed Ymiragard, come south once more. She had changed in the days since we last met, most obvious being the renewed tan of her skin, second being her new attire. On memory, I looked to her hair and saw a single braid woven amongst her now wild mane of mahogany. Just one. How important was that? Was it related to me or just a preference?

Ymira noticed my attention, mentioning, "I almost cut it all off. I wanted no distractions this hunt."

Wait, no. She did not say that at all, at least not then. She didn't say much of anything in those moments. Damn it, I refuse to mistake this night.

I addressed her by name, and I noticed her hair, yes. And she, in turn... addressed mine. Yes, mutual acknowledgment. Mundane, but accurate. She was sitting up now, with a hold over my torso though my toes touched the floor, and returned with the deep-setting vrykul voice, "Fellion."

There would be no mistaking our recognition. She knew me from before I had even cleared that hilltop, she had waited for me, and she had sent me running. My eyes turned downward, to where her drakeskin cloak had parted, and I found a worn but well-treated cuirass waiting. There, in the left side of her belly, which was right from my view, was a closely stitched line that I knew quite well.

Yet my attention dragged to another stitched line just above it, and a third and a fourth on her right side. She had found some abuse since our parting. Or had it been there from before, such as her mishap with the proto-drakes? I did not know the answer then, just as I do not now, but I did hold a fear that some may have been the ramifications of losing to a man in battle, done at the hands of her Hyldnir trainers.

And that lingering hardness that clung to me after Storm Peaks, the same that had me into the isolation of the forest, broke down just a little more. She makes me younger, this Red Fox. Oh, and red is her cloak, sure, but red is her hair too, crimson as flowers, with the shine of cherries in moonlight, this lethal beauty that was before me...

"Ymira," I tried again, setting myself up to _speak_ to her, but she knew precisely where my attention was held, and she halted my speech before it could even begin. The hand that held me tugged me forward, where my toes skipped over the forest floor, and I stumbled into her, stopping my fall with one hand against her shoulder, which was exposed from the cloak.

And like that, she kissed me. Well and true this time, her lips came to mine like twin petals of a flower yet searing hot with a vrykul's warmth. The gesture struck me stupid, enough for me to first wonder why her head was so close to mine, then if we were actually kissing.

The kiss was brief. Ymira released me from her grip so that I was suspended over the sitting giantess by my own volition, and when her mouth relinquished mine, I could only stare with mute shock at that expectant face of hers. In hindsight, I really shouldn't have been that surprised, which was at the boldness more than the implications. Vrykuls took what they wanted, and they also took the consequences as they came.

Ymira would never simper like a maiden and shyly say something like, "Maybe I like you." She took a kiss from me, then waited to see how I responded.

Well, after the kiss, she _did_ make a displeased face, teasing, "Still cold as death."

When I could finally dislodge my heart from my throat, it was to rather breathlessly whisper, "Still warm as fire." And Light, her eyes seemed to flash in the moonlight as they regarded me in full, shining like a metallic blue, and she had such a smile on her face, something a little mischievous, something a little excited, and I knew right then, I knew as I know now, that I was in love. That the ember that still smoldered had caught a flame.

Heart thundering, with only urge and instinct, my right hand came to her hair, threading through the red tresses, and I whispered once more, "Ymira..." My hand stopped just behind her ear, and I pulled myself right back to her, nigh feverishly returning to that wonderful sensation of her lips against my own.

Ah, what did I know about love then? Not much at all. But her and I, we are an impulsive people. Driven easily by passion, by whim. I thought myself tempered by rightness, in control where it counted. Proud Fellion was done in by a single smile. A smile from her; that smile from her. A man has been lowed for less, I suppose.

But I kissed her, and she kissed me, under the moonlit sky that night. We managed easier than I might have expected, considering her a half-giant and I half that again. She remained sitting, leaned back at my insistence, while I was stooped over her, desperate to remain locked at the lips. Hers are a kissable sort, thick and soft and eager, and I _relished_ it.

Young Fellion was terribly new to all of this, but he was far from shy. Not even Ymira's beauty could intimidate me then, not after that smile and not once my passion was already roused. I forget who initiated it, but lips were soon no longer enough, and our tongues met, to a far greater jolt than our kiss had given me.

We were so far from shy, the two of us. You'd never know we were novices to this passion. I remember the delightful chills I had when our tongues batted, Ymira's as overwhelming and fiery as the rest of her. By it, I realized that this night would not slow, that we two would not stop until it was through. I was very willing, but questions and doubts rose within my foolish head.

Even with her tongue in my mouth, and my teeth nipping in defiance, and all my physical attention upon this woman, my thoughts couldn't remain apace. I wanted to know why she had chosen this, chosen me, and, if you can believe it, what she meant by it. I couldn't do single flings. With her, I didn't _want_ a single fling.

But what was I to do? Try to ask between kisses, "Hey, so uh, why are we doing this?" Funny how even in my most reckless and outwardly confident moments, I found myself growing insecure. Fellion the Black-Struck, done in by his fears of a single woman.

She wasn't stopping this though, and neither was I. Our hands began to wander, I remember. Just touching, until I decided her cloak was in my way. It was a rope-knot, the kind you hear unfortunate traveler's accidentally hanged themselves with if the cloak snags, but she had it looped around the former clasps, to keep the rope from her throat. Vrykul knots are easy for human fingers, and I had it undone in a moment, tugging it from the clasps, and allowing that wide swath of hide to fall behind her.

Her eyes met mine after that. It's not something you think about, eyes opened or closed, when your kissing, but when hers come to mine, I remember. They were wide and blue, just gorgeous, and she had this excitement to her that I don't usually see. I... hah, I realized what she was thinking when I took off her cloak – that I was divesting her of her clothing – and I almost stopped everything right then to dissuade the idea. It was just in my way, I was going to say.

And ever so easily, with the caution of a gentle giant, Ymira eased herself back, never letting our mouths part, until she rested against her fallen cloak. I moved down with her, beginning to touch along her arms, where the skin was so hot and smooth, like meeting a lover under the sheets after being out in the cold. But the armbands and bracers, they also restricted my touch, so I set on removing those too, implications be damned.

I was never the only one to act. Ymira came to me with fingertips, in delicate motions, like I was bloody porcelain. Not always delicate though, I recall. I nipped her tongue a little hard once, and her nails scraped down my cloak hard enough to have me shiver. By the time I had her arms bare, she had my forest cloak off, managing the clips with her vrykul digits.

When I felt it slide from my back, then heard it get tossed aside, I ended our perpetual kiss finally. It was to grab her hands, and I wrestled the heavy limbs down, holding them above her head by a grip on her triceps. She didn't fight me, leaving her arms up, with this comely smile even as she and I both panted after our kiss... es. I don't think that counts as only one.

I was straddling her, seated just below her bosom, which left me bent just before her face in my hold. If there was ever a chance to stop, it would have been there. But I dug my fingertips into her skin, dragging them down over her firm arms until they reached her armpits and armor. She isn't ticklish, Ymiragard, not that I'd ever want to send her into a fit.

But my tips hooked under the armor, where her skin was a clammy inferno, and I tugged on that flimsy cuirass. I could see by the skin of her chest beneath the neckline, from the arm opening at the arm holes, the movements of her torso as she breathed audibly. I could have stopped there. With anyone else, I probably would have. But this woman, I saw her only twice a year at most, and I was not fool enough to be made to wait until then, not when we were this close, not when she was as interested in me as I was her.

But again, there was the fear of only a fleeting interest, that she would disappear once more and I'd never see her again. Perhaps this was only appreciation for overcoming her in battle, and then she'd be off to the next man after. I couldn't bear it, I couldn't permit it. I pulled her up by her armor, cuing her to lift her face to mine, but I didn't let our lips touch.

I whispered, surely betraying all of my desperate hopes, and nearly demanded, "Be mine, Ymiragard."

And those snakes that are lips did their serpentine curve, and her eyes looked right at my own, and she demanded back, "Be mine, Fellion."

And with that, I was. I honestly, truly was, from then and to forever. I needed no more assurance. My mouth ravaged hers again for another long moment, tongue not even a question of addition, until I shoved her the inch or so back to the forest floor and moved my kiss aside her mouth to her soft cheek and firm jaw, and down her throat, all while my hold remained over her fitted leather shell.

I remember her breath against my ear while I lingered on her throat, biding time as my hands found the buckles that held her cuirass to her. Never the waiting lady, her hands moved from their position above her, closing that open pose to assault my own clothes, but I sank my teeth into her scorching skin and pushed them back down. I am not a dominator nor she a dominated, but she would have to be patient.

My mistake was thinking she would also sit through some teasing. What did I know about women outside of tavern-talk? I thought I'd explore her slowly, learn what she liked and didn't, what a _vrykul_ liked and didn't, but as soon as I moseyed my way down with her armor, slowly peeling it from the top of her chest in an attempt at a torturous trail of kisses, I _felt_ the vibrations of her growl through my lips from her skin just before she seized my human body in both hands and sat up.

I remember that half-lidded look she gave with her lovely pale eyes, part disdain, part challenge, while her cuirass half-dangled from her shoulders. The moon was still bright and full above us, bathing us in a world of perfect silver color. I had something of a tongue-in-cheek smile for her, acknowledging that I would not be the only active participant this night.

So she laid me down in her place and ripped that hanging armor from her frame. She was on her knees at them time, before my feet, which left her towering over my reclined self. I often thought of how she might have looked without the blood and grime that time in the north, when we were bed-bound and wasted by the Storm Peaks. I was not disappointed when that moment finally came.

Ymira is every part lovely, which I realize is not exactly descriptive though every part true. But she has a vrykul's heavy and well-formed chest, and dark areola that sit well on her shapely breasts. She is not precisely lithe, though she is quite visibly strong, with a core that shows starkest in downlight like this moment, and I remember the well of shadows beneath her ribcage as this rigid arch beneath her breasts – from which moonlight showed her abs intermittently as she breathed.

She was and is breathtaking, even just topless. Even with a top, hah! But I also remember seeing her scars again, which were pale and glowed brightly in the light. Some were lines, others far less neat. These did not subtract from her beauty, only added to it, like an exotic set of markings as enigmatic as she who knelt there. Oh, how my face must have looked then, probably open-mouthed and in the awe of a child. Or perhaps closed, but dry and cottony, struck utterly speechless by this immortally beautiful woman.

This image is so firm in my mind I feel as though the moment lasted for minutes, but surely it was only a second, as she threw aside the cuirass then leaned over me, supporting herself with one hand, while the other touched my short beard of the time with its fingertips. My eyes were torn on where to look, which were captivated by her eyes, but also drawn naturally to the exposed bosom that now hung close enough to touch. Feeling, rather stupidly, that staring would be impolite, I fought to keep my eyes right on hers, and I took up her hand in my own so I could kiss each knuckle. Something to distract myself and my racing heart.

I believe she realized my hesitations, because her fingers carefully took hold of my own and brought the same hand down, or I suppose _up,_ to her... ah. Well, breast, but I think this is well far enough. You get the idea of where this is heading and will just have to imagine the rest.

"_We have only just gotten to the best part! You must continue. You must! Three times I say it, you must continue!"_

Look, I have given you the intimates enough already. My tongue can only go so far, and... _this_ is a very private moment, one I don't have the sole authority to share on a whim.

"_Yet this is no mere whim. This is the only recital of your story, barely pried from your lips. You must do this properly, and this moment, _your_ first night with _her,_ this must be described. It is every bit as important- nay, greater! than all else told this night. Close your eyes, if you find yourself so embarrassed. But relive this moment, Fellion, for yourself, and for all who would know the tale of proud Fellion and the woman he so loved."_

Relive this moment? Have you not noticed the clarity in which I recall it, how tightly I have clung to this most precious of all memories? I need no recital to refresh my time with her, for these memories are all that I have of her in the long spans we are apart... Light, we will do this your way; I will keep on, but you will be quiet as the grave, lest I remember that I have before me an audience to this most intimate of moments and the vulgarities shared by my tongue.

...Alright, deep breath. Eyes closed. Build the scene. On my back, during a cloudless night, there is more to be said. The Ghost Light of Northrend radiated above us, flashing shades of greens and violets and golds, mixed among the stars like the sun had spilled its paint bucket along the sky. There is no sight like the Ghost Light in all the world, and even the pockets of Fae realms are cheap imitations to that marvelous light. Between the Ghost Light, the brightness of a full Elune, and the cresting of the Blue Lady, there was light aplenty that evening, pooling down into our glade and bearing celestial witness to the deeds done that night.

Such a light show was little more than petty backdrop to the woman above me, who now pressed my hand to her breast. My hand didn't really fit, I recall. It just seemed so small and her so large, and that was not my only insecurity of the night on that matter. Alas, no matter the clumsy machinations of my hand then, Ymira only wished me distracted as she worked at the ties of my ranger's vest. It was an earthy colored thing, worn protectively over a long-sleeved shirt, that dressed me in the wilds back then.

Not that such a detail matters, as they both came right off under her nimble fingers. Though my attention was immersed upon my hands and their targets, I worried that the thicker vrykul fingers wouldn't manage the small ties, but she picked them apart in moments, and I sat up to help her remove the articles.

We kissed again, once in matching dress. I don't think she liked the position, having to crane down to reach my face, so I thought myself clever when I sat up further and came upon her passionately, pushing her back with my ardor until I was practically crouched over her cloak with my hands running over that blazing skin of hers. She made an approving sound from it, and I knew she appreciated boldness.

I remember there were weird thoughts too. I feel I should have been a bit more... focused on what was going on, but somehow the knowledge of what I was doing stirred up everything related from before. I could recall turning down companions in backwater taverns, and my time flirting with Ingrid and girls like her. "Like her" as in approachable, not vrykul. It had been time enough that I no longer focused on that lonely feeling in those luxurious rooms during my splurge, when I would consider a woman beside me, but I was of marrying age and increasingly interested in that topic.

So even during all this, I would think that I finally found that someone. Not what I ever imagined, but the Light will never hear me complain; it was my creativity that had been lacking, not my lots in love. Not my Fate.

My first time, I didn't know what to expect. No one does, usually, but I gave myself to instinct and didn't bother adhering to anything those hooligans try to tell you at the bar. Ymira riled me up, and I devoured her lips and her skin as much as was available, but that wouldn't sustain me for much longer. I was shamelessly aroused, and my pants a painful sort of confining at point. My heart fluttered, but there was no reluctance when I hooked my arm around her hips and led her back to the cloak.

The readiness was mutual. Again with her care in lowering herself, she eased herself to the cloak and reclined onto her back, always watching me with those shocking pale eyes. That is where I finally hesitated, when pinned under that gaze, but the longer I stared in those eyes, the less I wanted to stop. I came up her side, dragging my sword-worn hand up her firm stomach, feeling not the indentures of muscle but the fire of her silken skin, until my hand scooped up one of her breasts and my mouth could capture hers once more. Our lips moved hotly and insistently, and I knew her expectations for me.

I left her lips to make my way back down her. And because I had to try it, I did stop once along the way to briefly suckle on her nipple, to watch her reaction to it, and I... ahem, I _did_ see what all the fuss was about over the act. Then I was at her waist, where her tight breeches were belted on, and I wasted no time in loosening the trousers and seizing fistfuls of the sturdy cloth to tug them down.

It inflamed me, the act of stripping Ymiragard. I remember the way she wordlessly lifted her hips to make it easier, the look of her eyes as I unclothed the final part of her, and the revelation which came in bright moonlight and welling shadows, defining her exact features by the contrast. I had seen her before, months ago, but the situation had changed, and now I _looked_ at her without restraint, as her breeches bunched up at her knees.

My mouth was dry then, but I remember the impatient wiggle of her hips, and I continued my task, eventually stumped by her remaining boots and clumsily trying to focus on their specific knotting while Ymira was bare from the shins and up just before me. I managed though, making sure I knew enough of the boots that they wouldn't slow me again. I remember her position after, sitting up on her elbows, leaving her legs just slightly parted, wanting my eyes on her and not a bit shy. Another image seared forever in my skull, that view of her under the moonlight, that entire view, and even just the subtle change along her torso from breathing captivated me.

This time, there was a pause for it, as those same lips I had just kissed with abandon made their sinful curve of a smile, and her toes touched my thigh and curled playfully. She beckoned me with just a word. "Fellion," she called, and my spine crawled under the cool Northrend air, and I was spurred into action once more.

The Northrend air was so cold against my skin, once I had all my clothes off, but she was a warm hearth when I came to her, banishing any discomfort. That vrykul skin is addictive, and I relished my return to it, to that same naked embrace we had shared in the frozen cave. But this hold was not the survival-driven necessity of the cave any longer, a thrilling truth which was testified when I captured her waiting lips once more. I could kiss that mouth everyday and be no less eager, and with us in the throes of the final moment before, I kissed her again and again. I hear some vrykuls aren't big on kissing – or any solid display of affection as we know it. Had Ymira been one of those, I don't think I could have lasted as I did.

It is an odd dichotomy, kissing, as it leaves me in no rush yet painfully impatient. I can't stop, but I only want more. I made the effort anyways, and rather breathlessly, I managed, "Ymiragard..." Though it was just her name, it came as a question, _the_ question, and she touched my lips with the pad of her finger. She repeated, "Be mine, Fellion."

It was the only thing I needed to hear. I had concerns still. Concerns about me, about us. Concerns not that I was human, but that, as a lover, I was half of what should have been. Concerns that I'd only humiliate myself trying. Concerns that even when all was said and done, she'd be swept away by Fate once again, never to be seen again. I had concerns, but I had no hesitations.

I wanted this. It was a spontaneous want, but once realized, not one I'd trade for the world. Though, as it went, one I _would_ trade the world for.

Now, Ymiragard is a half-giant, something like eleven feet tall. I am a human, only a bit above six. We have never played ignorant of this fact, and it has made for some hurdles. Pleasure has proven to not be one; it only takes a bit of consideration to make up for that. But Ymira is eight times heavier than a woman that's half her height, five'six or so. Her full weight would crush me if we weren't careful, which limited the ways we could actually come together and shed caution on our behavior when we did.

And Ymira and I, we aren't precisely a cautious people.

Anyways, never one to merely watch, Ymira sat up when I settled between her legs on my knees. I don't recall it being a tense moment or a dilemma even. It was just her and I, alone and naked in under moonlight, settled on a drakeskin cloak. My heart thundered, but my passion, and my lust, were stronger. I wouldn't separate from her burning skin, so my hands were on her thighs, the delicate inner parts, and I remember the tremor that passed through her at the small transitions of my hands as they passed up and down her leg, increasingly closer to that final part of her. Perhaps she shivered at the cold of human skin, or with anticipation, or she is just sensitive there. I believe the latter.

I remember when she took one of her breasts in her own hand, and just staring at me as she fondled herself, biting her lower lip. I thought it was strange, because I had no urge to just grab myself. I worried she was growing dissatisfied with me, so my hands stopped their oscillations, continuing upwards unceasingly. She made a sound, a soft hiss between her teeth, when she felt my fingers breach their pretend threshold and touch along her apex, and her fondling hand squeezed. I realized it was not an act of long suffering.

There was tightness in my chest when my attention fully came to her womanhood. Not anxiousness, but just the reality of what I was doing, where my eyes were. Even for me, it was strange to realize that this was the one woman I would not need to express the due courtesy of looking away from her nakedness. The one woman for which this is expected, that desire may reign free with, that the passions would be mutual. The word "partner" is so overused I find it lacking beside what it should truly be: wife.

And strangest yet best of all, the same is also true for her, and she very much likes to flaunt that fact. Even then, I remember, I wished to take my time, learn her bit by bit, but she brought her other hand to my back and urged me forward, insisting that we continue. She was aroused, obvious even in the moonlight by the glistening in the curls of her womanhood. Her impatience affected me though; I don't think I had even softened since before my pants came off, and now I was lined penetrate. The last straw was her calling me by name one final time. There was such undeniable lust and insistence in her voice, beckoning me to join with her, and in that moment, my world went red.

I joined with her. I did so with her hand against my back, insistently urging me to her. I did it with my hands on her hips, once she'd leaned back for a better angle. I can only say that she took me through her maidenhead, when that obstructed our union, and Light, was that a moment to take my passions right out of me.

I remember though, very clearly, that Ymira made not a sound, nor did she flinch. She just held me to her with both arms, tight enough that my chest was flat against her stomach and my head trapped between her bosom. That's as far up as I go against her frame. And to answer that damnable question I always get, _yes,_ we can kiss when we make love. And we _did._

After that moment passed, we gave ourselves to our passions. It was a wildfire. I don't know what else to say of it. I came to know Ymira in a torrent of fire, as a man can only know a woman. It was everything I could ever hope it could be. It was more; it was impossibly more. Her blazing warmth, the sensation of her skin against mine, the sensation of... everything. And the sight of her in passion, it was almost too much, and it could only be answered with my own.

It was a frenzy. How long until she needed to do more, to participate without restraint, I forget, but then she fought me to my back, and she was braced so carefully when she straddled my hips. Light, it was a sight. In every regard, even. Fear was a mellow throb, to be so diminutive under this breathtaking giantess, under Ymira. But that fear was lost in lust and pleasure, especially once she seized initiative and arduously continued. Such is the second sight, the witness to a woman act on her desires – desires for me, which is a realization to change a man.

The moment lasted as long as her control did. But as a vrykul's passion exceeded rationale, she came to me with greater and greater force, until I worried that my bones wouldn't long withhold under it. Though I won't pretend any superhuman strength, I mustered all that I could. With it, I quelled those sensuous hips, and _what_ are you doing, Lady Sylvian?

XxX

The Fae's silver eyes winked open shortly after his did. Those bright eyes lacked their previous sharpness, however, looking liquid and languid, until she realized the reason for his break in the story and her focus returned in a rush. Her hand slid out from under her dress. "I- um, my apologies. Where I'm from, these recitals are told for... deliberate purposes, and it is all too easy to forget myself in the midst."

"Light, Sylvian, I'm sitting right here!"

"Lady Sylvian," she corrected, seemingly neutral as she tried to smooth her dress.

Fellion shook his head. "Well, you aren't very _lady_like with your skirts hiked around your knees. Light." He pushed himself up from the blanket, pacing away onto the grassy banks of the glade. The soft blades were wet with dew, clinging to his feet once more, but he paid it little attention as he muttered beneath his breath.

"Fell," the elf called behind him, "just finish the tale. It won't happen again, I promise."

"There isn't a chance in hell," he called back, patrolling near the willow. "I said far too much already, and I am absolutely not giving you anymore _fantasy fuel."_ He clicked his tongue, growling, "I can't believe I let you convince me to say what I already have."

Seeking a moment of space, he rounded the willow to pace away. His sure footing arrested before he even cleared sight of the pool, yet he still nearly collided with an intently staring Lady Sylvian. The suddenness of her appearance on the other side of the willow startled Fellion, and he looked back towards the blanket, partially gobsmacked. "How- When did...?"

"You will continue your story, won't you, Fellion?" the dark-skinned elf inquired, her voice decidedly sweet and definitely alien in sound.

Fellion bit his tongue, holding in the first impulsive response. This was the Fae he was dealing with; it needed some degree of eloquence. He settled his weight back to his heels, meeting her bright silver stare evenly, neither meek nor forceful. It dawned on him that she thought he was leaving, something she would not allow lightly.

A younger Fellion might apologize for the impression, bending backwards to make clear he was only taking a break. A younger Fellion might challenge her anyways, to let her know that she had no power over him. Instead, it was an older Fellion who had patience and an inkling of understanding of this particular Fae. Her only desire was his story. Her current threat was not malicious.

Breathe in, breathe out. His ire departed, momentarily forgiving her inappropriate response to his story. "I'm not leaving. I'm taking an intermission to organize my thoughts. You have succeeded in wrapping me in the moments of my memory, but when I return, my story will resume on my terms. There will be no more voyeuristic looks at our most intimate moments."

Those wide, insistent eyes lost none of their glossy luminescence, though she waned the aggressiveness of her stance as she chewed her pomegranate-colored lip. She conceded with a flitting nod, ears jouncing at the motion. "That is acceptable. Alas, you will remain open to a case against this decision?"

"You'll need one hell of a case," he muttered, but a curt nod acquiesced. It bloomed a radiant smile on Lady Sylvian's face, the kind to warm the heart of even men like him. With the courtesy one might expect of her position, the elf dipped him a shallow bow and measured smile, before offering her hand with, "Then shall I lead our return?"

"Intermission," Fellion rebuffed, stepping astride her invitation and delving into the surrounding woods. There was a childish pleasure in denying her.

On Fellion's return, it was to his dear friend the willow, while Lady Sylvian patiently settled herself upon the elfsilk blanket. She folded her legs beside her, an element of regality to her that still sparked a reminder of when he caught her self-pleasuring. Rather than frown, he found himself scoffing, and he said, "I can't believe you."

She realized the intent behind it, once again brushing her palms lightly against the thighs of her dress as if to smooth nonexistent wrinkles, and a taut feminine voice returned, "Sex is as natural among us as your kind. There is no reason to act so affronted by a slip of the mind."

_Or slip of the hand,_ Fellion thought judiciously, but he was not without amusement for the situation, now that the moment had passed. Shaking his head of it, he took a breath and cast his mind over what he meant to say. He needed this to run as precisely as he could.

He opened his mouth to begin, only to be spoken over by her: "I must say, despite the tastelessness of your number-crunching in the midst of erotica – five'six this, proportional scaling that – I found myself felicitously immersed. Beyond even that, to hear the initial stirrings of your fierce devotion to this woman, that unshakable loyalty, it was simply ravishing. Not in the quips about what you would come to do for her, but in your idea of a partner, in your regard for sex. It is so unprecedented among my kin. I am quite appreciative to hear it directly from the one who so believes it."

Concentration broken, Fellion nevertheless lifted his brows at her words. "What, sex and the eternal bond? It is a fading idea even among my kind. I suspected you, like all Fae, would find the very notion laudable. An amusement of the mortals."

"We do, nearly all of us," she agreed, but her smile was anything but condescending. "Nearly," she repeated, "because some of us found intrigue in it, enough that certain circles of Fae have even given up what you would call promiscuity."

That was news to Fellion. His experiences told him the fairfolk were fundamentally incapable of such restraint, like trying to convince an animal to not eat. With a shrewd look and a dry tone, he said, "Let me guess: you're supposed to be one of them." Another birdlike nod answered him. Laughter burst from his mouth, and then again when he noticed her face. "You're being serious? Then what in the Light's name was _that_ earlier?"

Lady Sylvian's arms folded tightly against her chest, showing herself miffed at his response. "I'd like to see _you_ practice celibacy for seventy-five years in elven society. Personal relief becomes a necessity."

He held up his palm, conceding the point. _Young,_ he noted. But even to the Fae, years were years. If she spoke the truth, that was quite a feat. Then he remembered her mention of bedside recitals and amended himself. _The spirit is there, at least._

Although yearning to return to Ymiragard and his story, Fellion couldn't help but ask, "Why do it?"

Bright silver eyes held him in suspension for a steady moment, until her hands returned to her lap and she spoke. "Because of mortals like you, Fellion. In fact, you said it best in your second tale: "Something has been lost, something that cannot be explained or quantified, but something never the less." We elves, in our longevity, have had the opportunity to observe the rise and fall of innumerable romances, and some know there to be an echo of truth in those words. If our former Queen, whom had taken more lovers than days you have lived, were to marry, what meaning would there be to their union? In fact, marriage would only be burdensome to her lifestyle, thusly an example of its degeneration."

A significant pause concluded her words. Upon finding his voice once more, the words came softly, "You surprise me, Lady Sylvian. I did not think..." He cleared his throat, then rang out clearly, "I wish you all the happiness and success when you finally find that man, Lady Fae. And when you do, let not all the powers of this world, the one above, or the one below, ever take him from you."

Those silver eyes only gleamed in their regard for him. "There it is again, that devotion," she purred. "If I could find only half that, it would not be for naught..."

Fellion shrugged off the hungry, even lustful, stare from the elf. If she was looking for love or something more ambitious, that was not his concern. He inhaled slowly. "I am going to return to the story now. On my terms."

If she was frustrated over missing the descriptive intimacy between he and Ymira, Lady Sylvian's single nod did not betray it. This was not yet the time for her to make another appeal to it.

"That night, Ymira and I came together in a wildfire. It was spontaneous, but powerful, uncontrollable, and it colored the whole world red...

XxX

I was younger then, of course, and still new to the world. New to a lot of things, but youth has energy in great ways, and I was first to rise from the bed when all was finished. I remember I grabbed my pants from the forest floor and had to brush out the dirt and twigs. I hate that, mind you; I try to be careful to not just throw my few bits of clothing to the dirty floor when days away from civilization. It's a damned waste and uncomfortable, and cleaning it is more effort than its worth. But she had been passionate and so had I, and _cleanliness_ had been far, far from both our minds.

So sitting at the edge of our makeshift bed for lovemaking, struggling to get my pants back on, I knew I wanted to say something – something that captured my wonder and excitement over what we had just shared, but words failed me as they always did around her, and though I felt boorish in my silence, I knew I'd feel only as an annoyance if I tried speaking. Yet she spoke to me, in that deep, pleasant way of hers, saying...

"Not yet."

It sent me into a tired laughter, and I let myself fall back so that my head rested against her stomach. I spoke in earnest honestly, "Another would kill me."

And her fingers came to my hair, threading through, until they dragged to my chin, lifting it so that I could meet her eyes and her heart-stopping smile. But my heart couldn't stop then, not that night, and so I felt only this warmth in my chest that rivaled that of her skin. "Don't leave yet," she said.

I took her large hand between my own, and I brought her knuckles to my lips. I told her, "I'm not going anywhere." And I meant it. I wanted nothing more than to stay with this woman. I yearned to talk to her, to hear her voice, to see her smile, to learn more of the enigma that was Ymira. I was hers, and she was mine, and I wanted to explore every bit of what that meant for me, for us, and our future.

I had exiled myself to this forest life in Grizzly Hills, always feeling like I was waiting for something. Now that something had found me; I could not let it go. I was not a realistic man.

On the other hand, Ymira's pragmatism was unshakable, even in the wake of our passions this night. But for my sake, she said nothing, rather lifting me from her side so that we lay face to face, where she took the initiative in kissing me. I was all too content to fall into the motions once more, and smoldering fires rekindled with piecemeal brightness. The pants were coming off again, I presumed with a hungry growl in my thoughts.

I remember when one of her hands came to my back, cradling me into her, and I lost my support over her and so decided to just run my hands through her luxuriously long hair, eventually fingering her braid and dragging it out of the mane so that it dangled before her eyes. And she smiled at me between kisses once I did, so I found I had to ask, "For me?"

She laughed, just a short little huff, and said, "For _me."_

I chuckled and flicked the thing back into her hair, kissing those hot lips once more and meeting that tongue until my hands made fists of her hair and her nails scraped down my back. But we also unwound, and the kisses became chaste little pecks, until I was laid beside her again and she curled in embrace.

As the rush of the day caught up with me, sleep became inevitable. Pitching a camp in the random of Grizzly Hills was not wise, but neither could I muster the concern for it. I found my long-abandoned pack and managed my blankets and sheets, both of which became necessary to cover the forms of myself and my lover of the night, the Red Fox that would be sharing my bed.

Lethargy and contentedness relaxed me into the inferno that was Ymira's presence. With it, however, the suppression of my doubts waned. Listening to the steady, reassuring sound of her breathing, which dominated the symphony of the forest night, I asked her quietly, "You won't leave, will you?"

The silence that returned my question was aching. I opened my eyes to the bright night, and I saw the two blue rhinestones that were hers peering at me with an uncharacteristic softness. Somewhere, deep inside places I refused to acknowledge, I knew the truth of the matter. This was no world for a human and a vrykul to kick out together in grand adventures. Her people would have none of it, and neither would mine. Our paths could meet, but they could never align for more than brief moments.

But this giant could not trample over even my childish hopes. To her, perhaps they were something precious as they were delicate. When she answered, her words were so deliberately chosen and thought through; I did not realize her cleverness until long after the fact. She promised me, right then: "I will always come back..."

_I will always come back._ So simple a response, but with it, she dug to the very center of my fears, alleviating it while holding my hopes untarnished. I like clever women, Lady Sylvian, and while Ymira's is not the playful wit of Ingrid, it is one that sees with the same penetrating intensity that her powerful eyes suggest. It is one of the many things I love about her.

Her artifice made the inevitable no longer a bitter stone to swallow. I engraved her promise upon my heart with such a fierceness that Malavier would _never_ lead me to doubt; it has become the very rock that has carried me through the years.

Alas, so it went that we two finally went to sleep that night, as two mellowed lovers under the moons, and we held each other as only two new lovers could. I slept in her arms, so content and comfortable, feeling as though all was right in this world – unaware that sleeping alone would never feel right again, thenceforth always burdened by her absence.

But for that night, there was peace, and Fellion was happy.

The End.

XxX

At his own conclusion, Fellion blew out an unsteady breath. He was surprised to feel his heart beating fast, as if with anticipation or anxiousness, and he worked at controlling his breathing and calming himself. Lady Sylvian's bright, alien stare was upon him, silent and observant. He huffed, leaning back against the willow trunk and turning his eyes up towards the sky, filtered through the weeping branches.

"It started off so normal," he mentioned, "Our little romance. At that point in time, there was nothing of what I would later come to be known for. So simple were those days; the most exciting thing going on was this racy "liaison" between man and vrykul."

The Fae replied, "Normal indeed. For someone who is known to have talked his way out of a Hyldnir ambush, I expected something more verbal in your engagement with Dame Ymiragard, as in your exchanges with her sister Ingrid. As you warned afore, it is a trifle disappointing."

"Yet it is only right, isn't it? That she is the one I did not attract through cheap words."

"Perhaps," Lady Sylvian floated. "But I would hear it in your words, how your romance is not that of a storybook, where the damsel and the rescuer inevitably fall in love. Never mind which of you is that damsel. How is it proper?"

Fellion stretched his arms wide and waved her question away as he yawned. "Figure it out yourself. You have all the pieces now. Light, what time is it?"

"Time enough to hear about the following morning?" the Fae woman offered.

He shook his head. "There is no tale in it... I swear I've talked the night away but the moon hasn't budged an inch."

Ignoring his question still, she pressed, "How can there be no tale in waking together after your first night?"

His eyes slid from twinkling sky to elf, where her arms were folded once more into the fabrics of her dress. She truly was hungry for every detail of his past. "When I woke the next morning, she was already gone... as were my bedsheets." One of her long, exotic brows rose in response. He chuckled. "She does that sometimes. I think because it smells like me, and she wants the reminder. She left me wrapped in only my cloak."

Lady Sylvian's head tilted, like a curious bird. "What about coming to terms with your new arrangement – or engagement – with your lady lover?"

He shrugged. "She would always come back. I took that promise to heart, and I rose to finish clothing myself and ready for an abrupt journey. My isolation had come to an end; it was time to meet with my trapper once more."

"And this is where your legacy truly begins."

"My simple days were over," he agreed. Lady Sylvian noticed the solemnity that came to his face with it, the hardness in eyes that shined almost gold. In the fantasy of his past, it was almost easy to forget just who this was. Fellion the Black-Struck. Kingslayer. The man who burned the world.

"So, Fell," she addressed, choosing the familiar name of his friends, "what happened next?"

"Next," he answered, giving the word heavy emphasis and dramatic pause, "Fellion went home to sleep, after telling the Fae that his tale would continue the following night." He pulled himself to his feet, stretching wide once more.

Lady Sylvian also stood. Even as she opened her mouth in complaint, he stopped her with an raised hand. "No. No rebuttal. Of all places, this is the most appropriate for a break. Return to your dwelling, digest what you know, and return tomorrow to hear the steps I took to become the man I am regarded as today. Tomorrow you will hear the side of Fellion."

After another moment of visible dissent, the elf sighed like a breath of wind and straightened her composure. Her pretty face regarded him formally, and she said, "Very well. Tomorrow we may continue."

Fellion resisted the urge to sigh in relief. He was much too spent to worry about a proper defiance to the will of a Fae. With that in mind, however, he noticed Lady Sylvian was oddly pliant on that front. Malavier, Lord Isilain, those older Fae he had met once before, they would not give him even the slightest victories at whim.

Brushing the dew and dirt from his pants, he met the quicksilver eyes of his eager audience and said, "I wish you a pleasant night of sleep, my Lady, for what is left of it."

"And I for you." The highborne dipped him a bow that was deeper than Fellion expected, then she righted herself with a little grin.

Shaking his head of her, he only offered her a parting wave before turning away from his private glade. He could feel her eyes heavy upon his back with each step he made, forgetting the sticks and soil that turned under his toes. There was a tension in his lower back at walking from the Fae, some silly notion that he was violating one of their many rules and that repercussions were to come, but his leave was at their mutual agreement, and no resistance came as he put distance between them.

Eventually, the presence of the bathing pool and its elven occupant fading from his conscious, and the forest rushed in to fill his senses. It was a peaceful night. The stars above were bright, and the white moon no longer hovered directly above. Strong winds ruffled countless leafs in a storm of noise, conjoining the calls and chirps of as many insects. The smell was of crushed leafs and turned soil, and the wind brought wafts of musky air. This was home as much as any, for this man.


	7. Slow Circles 2

Though the dark was deep with the retreat of the moon, and the shadows welled from infernal pits, one lone man plodded on without worry, dressed in fine wear tarnished only by the wear of the woods. There was an energy to this man, one that was resonant with that of the forest, which gave his stride a sense of confidence that belied that of the man who entered this forest hours earlier.

But the way of the woods was long, a path tempered for reflection. Such content could not last under the meditation of this man, and with each step his bearing was chipped away, until it was that of a tired veteran who long weathered this world. Such was the man who cleared the treeline unto a courtyard of stumps, those hewed by his own two hands for the livelihood of his home.

With a sigh, the nightly sojourn gave his attention to the field of stumps, then to the pristine pile of firewood stacked beside his home. A quaint little cabin, not built by him but renovated many times by he and his one set of extra hands at home. Callused fingertips touched the spiraled face of a nearby stump, dragging over the rough wooden surface.

His one daughter would not be waiting inside the darkened cabin, he remembered. Neither would _she._ He knew better than to catch himself up in the past he once lived, to relive the hopes and joy of his youth, for now the gnawing absence only ate harder away at his consciousness. And to already be promised to return for the same treatment the next night...

He found it fortunate when, upon turning his eyes to the sky above his home, he saw a pale grey that heralded the approaching sunrise. An empty bed would only aggravate the ache; at least he could distract himself in the labor required in rural life. He did have to sigh over that silly Fae girl though, whom had urged him to speak all through the night. A late dinner and early breakfast would be welcomed now.

Inside his home, it was dark as he left it, so the man set about opening the many windows to allow the early light to leech away the shadows it could. As he did, he noticed a small contraption sitting upon his mantlepiece. A small smile cracked his features, and he was urged to approach it, giving a courtesy study of the trinket.

Ymiragard, his Ymira, she was still the most beautiful woman in all the world to him. He made a quip to the elf about a desire to preserve her beauty immortally in a statue. This was as close as he could come to it. He had invested in one of those newfangled gnomish devices – a photonical stainer, if his memory was clear – which could capture a nearly perfect image on special parchment. Next he saw her, he hoped to snap a few shots of her and their little family.

It may cheapen his immense efforts of holding her image spotless in his mind, seared in by meticulous attention, but he felt he was allowed a proper memento.

Just as he was about to replace the device on the mantle, his eyes caught something in the waxing light. He stepped closer to a window, holding the stainer close, until the wind was punched out of his lungs.

The device had been used once. A picture was waiting.

That was not a true statement before he left earlier that night. That meant Mally must have come home, then used it for her own amusement, despite his direct command otherwise and extensive explanation for its purpose. But that made little sense, because as mischievous and wily as Mally could be, such impish behavior was not her way. Which left another option...

The man looked out his window, to the lightening, monochromatic sky, and then he raced suddenly to his bedroom, throwing open his simple door with a bang. For two heartbeats he stood there, eyes wide and lips parted. But his eyes did not deceive him, for indeed there was his simple bed, made even simpler by a theft of its sheets and blankets.

Finally, he turned once more and fled out of his home, the gnomish device forgotten in his wake. He fled the empty home out into the morning light, a light muted by a dull overcast. Fellion ran because, without realizing, perhaps this had been a weird day.

And the world was grey.

XxX

"Mother, why did you lead me away? I wanted to hear what happened when you caught Da."

At the rim of a forest, a mere few miles from the single nearby home, a mother and her child walked in the early twilight of a cloudy morning. The child was still young yet, quite so, and the crown of her head was barely above her mother's waist. They dressed as though hunters, and leading them was an energetic worg of ashen fur that seemed determine to assess each stone with its nose before proceeding.

The daughter continued, her voice seeming both moody and intrigued, "And how did you know Da would say those lines when we returned?"

The mother was not quick to answer, though she hid her smile from her child. Nimble fingers, freed by fingerless gloves, tugged and pulled at strands of shocking crimson hair that seemed defiant to the wan world, idly finishing up a little braid that would mix with the rest of her long mane.

But the reason she knew when it was safe to bring her daughter back to continue hearing the story of last night, eavesdropping from the distant shadows, was simple. She knew the man who spoke those words, and she had the fortunate of catching him early into his banter with the svartálfr. He was a man who loved little games of speech; of course he would use the same words he had tried opening the tale with.

"And where are we going, Mother?"

Being raised with that man, it was inevitable that their daughter would be in habit of running her mouth like him. It was just something she would have to tolerate. In reply, her profound voice offered, "The red fox is tired. It is time for the little bird to do the chasing."

The child shifted her longbow hung around her shoulder, taking quick steps to keep apace. "But I thought the bird never gets what it wants?"

"This time, he might, child. This time, he just might."

An End, but not quite The End.

* * *

AN: Don't be fooled, that's the end. There is so much more that could, and was suppose to, be said of Fellion and Ymira, but between work, school, and other priorities, I needed this story to end. Still, depending on its reception, I might come back to it one day.

So I realized something as I was writing this. Fellion is actually a villain – in the same vibe as Richard Rahl from Sword of Truth. Less delusional about it, but, well, the best villains are those that don't seem inherently evil. He would do anything for her sake, and he did, consequences be damned. His selfishness condemned thousands, a nearly direct antagonist to the stand of the good people that fought the Kvaldir in the war. And like all villains, he feels – and can even seem – justified in his decisions. The life of the woman he loves and the lives of a thousand innocents. He dictated whose was more important.

Damn, I really did want to get into that. There are some good, squeamish moments in his past, where the reader has to stop and ask his/herself if that was really the _right_ choice. And then ask his/herself if s/he would do any differently.

Anyways, this story was a headache and a half to write. Every chapter after the first two was written and rewritten and rerewritten, and for each improvement found, something was lost, ultimately leaving me less than satisfied. This will have to do, as I don't have much time anymore.

So, if you've gotten this far, I want to thank you for bearing with me. I hope you enjoyed. Normally, I don't ask for reviews, but in this, I made some risks by stepping away from the source material, using my own ideas for Fae and such, so I would appreciate any positive or negative feedback on that. I don't think I can write fanfiction forever, so I need to start branching out.

Some numbers for this story: It's about 68,000 words, written (and rewritten) over the course of 6 months. As this story wasn't written strictly for myself, it was a bit difficult to write to a silent audience, but now that I'm finished, hopefully some folks will be lured in and enjoy it as I did.

Finally, I'd like to mention a little dissatisfaction for this. In the original concept, there was far less certainty to the relationship between he and her. They were to be minor antagonists to each other, until one day they went from battle to sex, nearly by accident – too much passion and too little reason. It was something that neither of them really managed to come to terms with, just sort of using each other but unwilling to stick around, yet there would be little moments of assurance done in actions. An odd moment of saving the others life, or a look to the other that wasn't their usual. It was to come to a head when she shows up to just drop off a daughter that he never knew they had, and he straight up put his foot down when she tried to leave right after.

You can see some of the original concept in the first chapter, but the idea was lost as we went along. I won't complain over what I have here, but I do wish I had kept true to the original. Despite my meticulous care not to, I feel like the "proper" romance started getting a little too fairytale-y. Oh well. The idea is still there for another day. And, if I ever continue this, it might be a little more obvious that this young couple is far less certain than they seem.

Just the reflections of the author. Once more, thank you for putting up with me, and I hope you all enjoyed.

-Sub-Zero879


End file.
